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THE  POETICAL  WOKKS  OF 
JOHN  TOWNSEND  TKOWBKIDGE 


— 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE 


BOSTON   AND    NEW  YORK 
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Copyright,  1869,  BY  FIELDS,  OSGOOD  &  CO.;  1874,  BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.; 
1877,  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS;  1881,  1888,  1897,  and  1903,  BY  J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 


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PSS0T7 

x 

CONTENTS  MfVJAu 


BOOK  I 

THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  PAGB 

"  SEIZE  TRAITS  OF  THE  LIVING  AND  HUMAN  —  NO  COPY  OF  COPY  AND  CAST  "  2 

THE  VAGABONDS         . 3 

THE  FROZEN  HARBOR 6 

OUR  LADY 9 

THE  MILL-POND .  11 

THE  RESTORED  PICTURE .        .        .  12 

THE  PEWEE 14 

MIDSUMMER          .        .        •        .        .        .        .  •• 17 

MY  COMRADE  AND  I       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  18 

LA  CANTATRICE 20 

BEAUTY 22 

SERVICE 24 

AT  SEA 26 

REAL  ESTATE ......27 

BY  THE  RIVER 28 

THE  NAMB  IN  THE  BARK          .        .        .       '.       .       .        .        .        .30 

THE  SWORD  OF  BOLIVAR        .        . 32 

LYRICS  OF  THE  WAR. 

THE  LAST  RALLY 36 

THE  COLOR-BEARER .        .        ,       .  38 

THE  JAGUAR  HUNT 39 

LIGHTER  PIECES. 

DARIUS  GREEN  AND  HIS  FLYING-MACHINE 41 

WATCHING  THE  CROWS 49 

EVENING  AT  THE  FARM 51 

THE  WILD  GOOSE .53 

GREEN  APPLES 55 

CORN  HARVEST 57 

THE  LITTLE  THEATRE 59 

THE  CHARCOALMAN 61 

BOOK  II 

THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"UNDER  THE  WINTRY  SKIES" 64 

THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY 65 

DOROTHY  IN  THE  GARRET 74 


M41797 


CONTENTS 


FARMER  JOHN 77 

OLD  SIMON  DOLE 79 

AUTHOR'S  NIGHT 85 

ONE  DAY  SOLITARY 95 

ONE  BIRTHDAY            98 

THE  STREAMLET 100 

THE  PHANTOM  CHAPEL 102 

THE  CUP 105 

THE  MISSING  LEAF 107 

THE  CITY  OF  GOOD- WILL 110 

LOVE 114 

COMMUNION 115 

SHERIFF  THORNE 118 

AT  MY  ENEMY'S  GATE 120 

RACHEL  AT  THE  WELL 122 

TROUTING , 127 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  FLAIL          .        . 128 

BOOK  III 

THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  COMPANIONS  OF  MY  CHARMED  NIGHT  AND  DAYS  "  132 

THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  (A  CHRISTMAS  STORY) 133 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  FISHING  BOAT 152 

AUNT  HANNAH 167 

TOM  's  COME  HOME 171 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ARABELLA 176 

BOOK  IV 
A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  ABOVE  THE  ROOFS  OF  THE  LOWLY  LET  POESY  HOVER  AND  GLANCE  "  184 

A  HOME  IDYL 185 

OLD  ROBIN 205 

PLEASANT  STREET       ...                208 

MENOTOMY  LAKE 212 

THE  INDIAN  CAMP 215 

AN  IDYL  OF  HARVEST  TIME 221 

THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND 223 

A  STORY  OF  THE  "  BAREFOOT  BOY  " 226 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  "  LALLA  ROOKH  " 228 

FILLING  AN  ORDER 232 

THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN    . 233 

UNDER  MOON  AND  STARS 236 

SONNETS 240 

I.  Nativity. 
II.  Circumstance. 
III.  Providence. 


CONTENTS  vii 


THE  TRAGEDY  QUEEN 242 

THE  OLD  LOBSTEKMAN 246 

OLD  MAN  GKAM 249 

THE  ISLE  OF  LAMBS 252 

THE  BOY  I  LOVE 259 

ANCESTOBS 261 

TWOSCOBE   AND   TEN  264 


BOOK  V 

THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS  (WITH  NEWLY  GATHERED  LEAVES). 

"  I  ASK  MY  SOUL  WHY,   DAY  AND  NIGHT  " 270 

THE  LOST  EARL 271 

How  THE  KING  LOST  HIS  CROWN 274 

MY  CAREER 275 

CAPTAIN  SEABORN 280 

THE  KANSAS  FABMEB 286 

A  MOTHER'S  TRAGEDY .       .  289 

AFTER  THE  SALE 293 

THREE  WORLDS 298 

THE  SEEKING . .,      *  303 

HYMN  OF  THE  AIR 305 

THE  POET 309 

AT  MOUNT  DESERT 312 

THE  BELL-BUOY  AT  MOUNT  DESERT 317 

THE  CABIN 321 

ODE   READ  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF   THE  SOLDIERS'   MONUMENT  AT  AR 
LINGTON          322 

AFTER  THE  CONCERT 324 

QUATRAINS  AND  EPIGRAMS 326 

Abraham  Lincoln. 

Temptation. 

Phaeton. 

Materialist. 

Idealist. 

Sensualist. 

Years  and  Art. 

How  can  I  welcome  Age  ? 

An  Odious  Comparison. 

Didactic  Poet. 

Improvisatore. 

Xavier  de  Maistre's  Epitaph  on  Himself. 

Bon  Voyage. 

WIDOW  BBOWN'S  CHBISTMAS     ....  328 

NEWLY  GATHERED  LEAVES. 

EVENING  AT  NAPLES 342 

CUBA     .  344 


A  LITTLE  CHILD 


344 


viii  CONTENTS 


OWNERSHIP 346 

A  BIRTHDAY  WISH 347 

OUT  IN  THE  WORLD 347 

IN  A  CORRIDOR       .  349 

THE  WINNOWER 352 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 357 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  ,  359 


BOOK  I 


THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Seize  traits  of  the  living  and  human,  —  no  copy  of  copy  and  cast ! 
Nor  swaddle  the  theme  of  the  Present  in  fable  and  lore  of  the  Past ; 
Find  love  in  hearts  that  are  nighest,  contentment  in  common  things, 
And  give  to  the  creeping  moment  the  lightness  and  glimmer  of  wings. 


THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  VAGABONDS 

WE  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger 's  my  dog.  —  Come  here,  you  scamp ! 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen,  —  mind  your  eye ! 

Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the  lamp  !  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old ; 

Five  years  we  've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  eaten  and  drank  —  and  starved  —  together. 

We  Ve  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there 's  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings), 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings ! 

No,  thank  ye,  Sir,  —  I  never  drink ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral,  — 
Are  n't  we,  Roger  ?  —  See  him  wink !  — 

Well,  something  hot,  then,  —  we  won't  quarrel. 
He 's  thirsty,  too,  —  see  him  nod  his  head  ? 

What  a  pity,  Sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk ! 
He  understands  every  word  that 's  said,  — 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  Sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I  've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here  's  to  you,  Sir !)  even  of  my  dog. 


THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin ; 

And  this  old  coat*,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
JAnd; fags- that  smell  o£  tobacco  and  gin, 

He"ll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  is  n't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master  ! 
No,  Sir  !  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin ! 

By  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water  ! 
That  is,  there  's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter ! 

X 
We  '11  have  some  music,  if  you  're  willing, 

And  Roger  here  (what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  Sir  !) 
Shall  march  a  little  —  Start,  you  villain  ! 

Paws  up  !  Eyes  front !  Salute  your  officer  ! 
'Bout  face  !  Attention  !  Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see  !)     Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle, 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier  ! 

March  !  Halt !  Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that 's  five  ;  he  's  mighty  knowing  ! 

The  night 's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  Sir  !  I  'm  ill,  —  my  brain  is  going !  — 

Some  brandy,  —  thank  you,  —  there  !  —  it  passes  ! 

*s 
Why  not  reform  ?    That 's  easily  said ; 

But  I  've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach  's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I  'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 


THE   VAGABONDS 


Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  Sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  —  but  I  took  to  drink  ;  — 

The  same  old  story  ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features,  — 

You  need  n't  laugh,  Sir  ;  they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  : 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  HER,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  would  n't  have  guessed 
That  ever  I,  Sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog  ! 

She  's  married  since,  —  a  parson's  wife  : 

'T  was  better  for  her  that  we  should  part,  — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?     Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road  :  a  carriage  stopped  : 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  ! 

You  've  set  me  talking,  Sir  ;  I  'm  sorry  ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?  you  find  it  strange  ? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me ! 

'T  was  well  she  died  before  —     Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain  ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 


6       THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 
No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were,  — 

A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 
And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I  'm  better  now  ;  that  glass  was  warming.  — 

You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street.  — 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink  ;  - 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me  ! 


THE   FROZEN  HARBOR 

WHEN  Winter  encamps  on  our  borders, 

And  dips  his  white  beard  in  the  rills, 
And  lays  his  broad  shield  over  highway  and  field, 

And  pitches  his  tents  on  the  hills,  — 
In  the  wan  light  I  wake,  and  see  on  the  lake, 

Like  a  glove  by  the  night-winds  blown, 
With  fingers  that  crook  up  creek  and  brook, 

His  shining  gauntlet  thrown. 

Then  over  the  lonely  harbor, 

In  the  quiet  and  deadly  cold 
Of  a  single  night,  when  only  the  bright, 

Cold  constellations  behold, 
Without  trestle  or  beam,  without  mortise  or  seam, 

Is  swiftly  and  silently  spread 
A  bridge  as  of  steel,  which  a  Titan's  heel 

In  the  early  light  might  tread. 

Where  Morning  over  the  waters 

Her  net  of  splendor  spun, 
Till  the  web,  all  a-twinkle  with  ripple  and  wrinkle, 

Hung  shimmering  in  the  sun,  — 


THE  FROZEN  HARBOR 


Where  the  liquid  lip  at  the  breast  of  the  ship 

Whispered  and  laughed  and  kissed, 
And  the  long,  dark  streamer  of  smoke  from  the  steamer 

Trailed  off  in  the  rose-tinted  mist,  — 

Now  all  is  gray  desolation, 

As  up  from  the  hoary  coast, 
Over  snow-fields  and  islands  her  white  arms  in  silence 

Outspreading  like  a  ghost, 
Her  feet  in  shroud,  her  forehead  in  cloud, 

Pale  walks  the  sheeted  Dawn : 
The  sea's  blue  rim  lies  shorn  and  dim, 

In  the  purple  East  withdrawn. 

Where  floated  the  fleets  of  traffic, 

With  proud  breasts  cleaving  the  tide,  — 
Like  emmet  or  bug  with  its  burden,  the  tug 

Hither  and  thither  plied,  — 
Where  the  quick  paddles  flashed,  where  the  dropped  anchor  plashed, 

And  rattled  the  running  chain, 
Where  the  merchantman  swung  in  the  current,  where  sung 

The  sailors  their  wild  refrain ;  — 

Where,  aloft  in  the  sunlit  cordage, 

I  watched  the  climbing  tar, 
With  his  shadow  beside  on  the  sail  white  and  wide, 

Climbing  a  shadow  spar  ; 
While,  weaving  the  union  of  cities, 

With  hoar  wakes  belting  the  blue, 
From  slip  to  slip,  past  schooner  and  ship, 

The  ferry's  shuttles  flew ;  — 

Now  the  hulls  at  their  anchors  are  frozen, 

From  rudder  to  sloping  chain  : 
Rock-like  they  rise :  the  low  sloop  lies 

An  oasis  in  the  plain  ; 
Loosed  from  its  stall,  on  the  yielding  wall 

The  ferry-boat  paws  and  rears  ; 
Citizens  pass  on  a  pavement  of  glass, 

And  climb  the  frosted  piers. 


THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

With  the  ebb  and  the  flow,  strange  meanings 

Come  up  from  the  burdened  bay : 
As  a  camel  that  kneels  for  his  burden,  reels, 

And  cannot  bear  it  away, 
The  mighty  load  is  slowly 

Upheaved  with  struggle  and  pain 
From  centre  to  side,  then  the  groaning  tide 

Sinks  heavily  down  again. 

Flown  are  the  flocks  of  commerce, 

Like  wild  swans  hurrying  south  ; 
The  coaster,  belated,  is  frozen,  full-freighted, 

Within  the  harbor's  mouth ; 
The  brigantine,  homeward  bringing 

Sweet  spices  from  afar, 
All  night  must  wait  with  its  fragrant  freight 

Below  the  lighthouse  star. 

Where,  in  the  November  gloaming, 

To  the  ribs  of  the  skeleton  bark 
That  stranded  lay  in  the  bend  of  the  bay, 

Motionless,  low,  and  dark, 
Came  ever  three  shags,  like  three  lone  hags, 

And  sat  o'er  the  desolate  water, 
Each  nursing  apart  her  shrivelled  heart, 

With  her  mantle  wrapped  about  her,  — 

Now  over  the  ancient  timbers 

Is  built  a  magic  deck ; 
Children  run  out  with  laughter  and  shout 

And  dance  around  the  wreck  ; 
The  fisherman  near  his  long  eel-spear 

Thrusts  in  through  the  ice,  or  stands 
With  fingers  on  lips,  and  now  and  then  whips 

His  sides  with  mittened  hands. 

Far  out  from  the  wharves  I  wander, 
By  the  ships  in  their  frozen  chains, 

To  the  buoy  below  in  its  cap  of  snow, 
While  the  wintry  daylight  wanes  ; 


OUR  LADY 


And  I  think  of  the  hopes  belated, 

Like  fleets  in  their  leaguer  of  ice, 

Of  lives  that  wait  for  Love's  sweet  freight 
And  the  spices  of  Paradise  !  — 

I  linger  and  muse  till,  at  twilight, 

The  town-roofs,  towering  high, 
Uprear  in  the  dimness  their  tall,  dark  chimneys, 

Indenting  the  sunset  sky, 
And  the  pendent  spear  on  the  icicled  pier 

Signals  my  homeward  way, 
As  it  gleams  through  the  dusk  like  a  walrus's  tusk 

On  the  floes  of  a  polar  bay. 


OUR  LADY 

OUR  lady  lives  on  the  hillside  here, 
Amid  shady  avenues,  terraced  lawns, 

And  fountains  that  leap  like  snow-white  deer, 
With  flashing  antlers,  and  silver  fawns ; 

And  the  twinkling  wheels  of  the  rich  and  great 

Hum  in  and  out  of  the  high-arched  gate ; 

And  willing  worshippers  throng  and  wait, 
Where  she  wearily  sits  and  yawns. 

I  remember  her  pretty  and  poor,  — 

Now  she  has  servants,  jewels,  and  land : 

She  gave  her  heart  to  a  poet-wooer,  — 

To  a  wealthy  suitor  she  bartered  her  hand. 

A  very  desirable  mate  to  choose,  — 

Believing  in  viands,  in  good  port-juice, 

In  solid  comfort  and  solid  use,  — 
Things  simple  to  understand. 

She  loves  poetry,  music,  and  art,  — 

He  dines,  and  races,  and  smokes,  and  shoots ; 

She  walks  in  an  ideal  realm  apart,  — 

He  treads  firm  ground,  in  his  prosperous  boots 


10      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  wise  design ;  for  you  see,  't  is  clear, 
Their  paths  do  not  lie  so  unsuitably  near 
As  that  ever  either  should  interfere 
With  the  other's  chosen  pursuits. 

By  night,  as  you  roam  through  the  rich  saloons, 

When  music's  purple  and  crimson  tones 
Float,  in  invisibly  fine  festoons, 

Over  the  hum  of  these  human  drones, 
You  are  ready  to  swear  that  no  happier  pair 
Have  lived  than  your  latter-day  Adam  there, 
And  our  sweet,  pale  Eve,  of  the  dark-furrowed  hair, 
Thick  sown  with  glittering  stones. 

But  I  see,  in  the  midst  of  the  music  and  talk, 
A  shape  steal  forth  from  the  glowing  room, 
And  pass,  by  a  lonely  cypress  walk, 

Far  down  through  the  ghostly  midnight  gloom, 
Sighing  and  sorrowful,  wringing  its  hands, 
And  bruising  its  feet  on  the  pointed  sands, 
Till,  white,  despairing,  and  dumb  it  stands, 
In  the  shadowy  damp  of  a  tomb. 

The  husband  sprawls  in  his  easy-chair, 

And  smirks,  and  smacks,  and  tells  his  jest, 
And  strokes  his  chin  with  a  satisfied  air, 

And  hooks  his  thumbs  in  his  filagreed  vest ; 
And  the  laugh  rings  round,  and  still  she  seems 
To  sit  smiling  there,  and  nobody  deems 
That  her  soul  has  gone  down  to  that  region  of  dreams, 
A  weary,  disconsolate  guest. 

Dim  ghosts  of  happiness  haunt  the  grot, 

Phantoms  of  buried  hopes  untold, 
And  ashen  memories  strew  the  spot 

Where  her  young  heart's  love  lies  coffined  and  cold. 
With  her  burden  of  sin  she  kneels  within, 
And  kisses,  and  presses,  with  fingers  thin, 
Brow,  mouth,  and  bosom,  and  beautiful  chin 

Of  the  dead  that  grows  not  old. 


THE  MILL-POND  11 


He  is  ever  there,  with  his  dark  wavy  hair, 

Unchanged  through  years  of  anguish  and  tears ; 

His  hands  are  pressed  on  his  passionate  breast, 
His  eyes  still  plead  with  foreboding  and  fears. 

O,  she  dwells  not  at  all  in  that  stately  hall ! 

But,  day  and  night,  by  the  cypresses  tall, 

She  opens  the  coffin,  uplifts  the  pall, 
And  the  living  dead  appears ! 


THE  MILL-POND 

THE  linden,  maple,  and  birch-tree  bless, 
With  cooling  shades,  the  banks  I  press 
In  the  midsummer  sultriness ; 
And  under  the  thickest  shade  of  all 
Singeth  a  musical  waterfall. 

The  burnished  breast  of  a  silver  pond 

In  the  sunlight  lieth  beyond,  — 

Clear,  and  calm,  and  still  as  death, 

Save  where  the  south-wind's  blurring  breath, 

Like  an  angel's  pinion,  fluttereth. 

The  south-wind  moveth,  but  maketh  no  noise, 
Nor  ever  disturbeth  the  delicate  poise 
Of  the  little  fishing  floats  the  boys 
Sit  idly  watching  on  log  and  ledge  : 
It  toucheth  but  softly  the  languid  sedge, 
Drooping  all  day  by  the  water's  edge. 

In  the  thickets  shady  and  cool 

The  white  sheep  tear  their  tender  wool ; 

Shaking  and  clashing  the  heavy  boughs, 

The  limber  colts  and  the  sober  cows 

Down  from  the  woody  hillside  come, 

To  stand  in  the  shallows,  and  hark  to  the  hum 

Of  the  waterfall  beating  its  airy  drum. 

Deep  in  the  shadowy  dell  at  noon 
I  lie,  and  list  to  the  drowsy  tune, 


12      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Fanned  by  the  sweet  south-wind  ; 
And  I  think  how  like  to  the  poet's  mind 
Are  the  skyey  depths  of  the  silver  pond, 
That  in  the  sunlight  lieth  beyond 
These  lindens  tall,  and  the  slimy  wall 
Over  which  poureth  the  waterfall. 

When  the  angry  March  winds  blow, 

And  rains  descend,  and  freshets  flow 

In  torrent  and  rill  from  mountain  and  hill, 

And  the  ponderous  wheels  of  the  sunken  mill 

Go  round  and  round,  with  a  sullen  sound, 

Rumbling,  mumbling,  half  under  ground,  — 

Hoarsely  the  waterfall  singeth  all  day, 

And  the  waters  are  streaked  with  marl  and  clay. 

But  when  these  shaded  banks  I  press, 
In  the  midsummer  sultriness, 
Standeth  all  still  the  mumbling  mill ; 
The  quiet  pond  doth  seem  to  thrill 
With  joys  which  all  its  windings  fill ; 
And  in  its  depths  the  eye  may  view 
A  world  of  soft  and  dreamy  hue,  — 
Banks,  and  trees,  and  a  sky  of  blue. 

Willow  and  sedge,  by  the  water's  edge, 
And  children  fishing  from  log  and  ledge  ; 
Flags  and  cresses  and  wild  swamp  grasses, 
And  every  butterfly  that  passes, 
The  lakelet's  placid  bosom  glasses. 


THE   RESTORED  PICTURE 

IN  later  years,  veiling  its  unblest  face 

In  a  most  loathsome  place, 
The  cheap  adornment  of  a  house  of  shame, 

It  hung,  till,  gnawed  away 

By  teeth  of  slow  decay, 
It  fell,  and  parted  from  its  mouldering  frame. 


THE  RESTORED   PICTURE  13 

The  rotted  canvas,  faintly  smiling  still, 

From  worldly  puff  and  frill, 
Its  ghastly  smile  of  coquetry  and  pride, 

Crumpling  its  faded  charms 

And  yellow  jewelled  arms, 
Mere  rubbish  now,  was  rudely  cast  aside. 

The  shadow  of  a  Genius  crossed  the  gate : 

He,  skilled  to  re-create 
In  old  and  ruined  paintings  their  lost  soul 

And  beauty,  —  one  who  knew 

The  Master's  touch  by  true, 
Swift  instinct,  as  the  needle  knows  the  pole,  — 

Looked  on  it,  and  straightway  his  searching  eyes 

Saw,  through  its  coarse  disguise 
Of  vulgar  paint  and  grime  and  varnish  stain, 

The  Art  that  slept  beneath,  — 

A  chrysalis  in  its  sheath, 
That  waited  to  be  waked  to  life  again. 

Upon  enduring  canvas  to  renew 

Each  wondrous  trait  and  hue,  — 
This  is  the  miracle,  his  chosen  task  ! 

He  bears  it  to  his  house, 

And  there  from  lips  and  brows 
With  loving  touch  removes  their  alien  mask. 

For  so  on  its  perfection  time  had  laid 

An  early  mellowing  shade ; 
Then  hands  unskilled,  each  seeking  to  impart 

Fresh  tints  to  form  and  face, 

With  some  more  modern  grace, 
Had  buried  quite  the  mighty  Master's  Art. 

First,  razed  from  the  divine  original, 

Brow,  cheek,  and  lid,  went  all 
That  outer  shape  of  worldliness  ;  when,  lo ! 

Beneath  the  varnished  crust 

Of  long  imbedded  dust 
A  fairer  face  appears,  emerging  slow,  — 


14      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  features  of  a  simple  shepherdess ! 

Pure  eyes,  and  golden  tress, 
And,  lastly,  crook  in  hand.  But  deeper  still 

The  Master's  work  lies  hid  ; 

And  still  through  lip  and  lid 
Works  the  Restorer  with  unsparing  skill. 

Behold  at  length,  in  tender  light  revealed, 
The  soul  so  long  concealed  ! 

All  heavenly  faint  at  first,  then  softly  bright, 
As  smiles  the  young-eyed  Dawn 
When  darkness  is  withdrawn, 

A  shining  angel  breaks  upon  the  sight ! 

Restored,  perfected,  after  the  divine 

Imperishable  design, 
Lo  now !  that  once  despised  and  outcast  thing 

Holds  its  true  place  among 

The  fairest  pictures  hung 
In  the  high  palace  of  our  Lord  the  King ! 


THE  PEWEE 

THE  listening  Dryads  hushed  the  woods  ; 

The  boughs  were  thick,  and  thin  and  few 

The  golden  ribbons  fluttering  through ; 
Their  sun-embroidered,  leafy  hoods 

The  lindens  lifted  to  the  blue  : 
Only  a  little  forest-brook 
The  farthest  hem  of  silence  shook  : 
When  in  the  hollow  shades  I  heard,  — 
Was  it  a  spirit,  or  a  bird  ? 
Or,  strayed  from  Eden,  desolate, 
Some  Peri  calling  to  her  mate, 

Whom  nevermore  her  mate  would  cheer  ? 
"Pe-ri!  pe-ri!  peer!" 

Through  rocky  clefts  the  brooklet  fell 
With  plashy  pour,  that  scarce  was  sound, 


THE  PEWEE  15 


But  only  quiet  less  profound, 
A  stillness  fresh  and  audible : 

A  yellow  leaflet  to  the  ground 
Whirled  noiselessly  :  with  wing  of  gloss 
A  hovering  sunbeam  brushed  the  moss, 
And,  wavering  brightly  over  it, 
Sat  like  a  butterfly  alit : 
The  owlet  in  his  open  door 
Stared  roundly  :  while  the  breezes  bore 

The  plaint  to  far-off  places  drear,  — 
"  Pe-ree !  pe-ree  !  peer  !  " 

To  trace  it  in  its  green  retreat 

I  sought  among  the  boughs  in  vain ; 

And  followed  still  the  wandering  strain, 
So  melancholy  and  so  sweet 

The  dim-eyed  violets  yearned  with  pain. 
'T  was  now  a  sorrow  in  the  air, 
Some  nymph's  immortalized  despair 
Haunting  the  woods  and  waterfalls ; 
And  now,  at  long,  sad  intervals, 
Sitting  unseen  in  dusky  shade, 
His  plaintive  pipe  some  fairy  played, 

With  long-drawn  cadence  thin  and  clear, 
"  Pe-wee !  pe-wee !  peer  !  " 

Long-drawn  and  clear  its  closes  were,  — 
As  if  the  hand  of  Music  through 
The  sombre  robe  of  Silence  drew 
A  thread  of  golden  gossamer : 

So  pure  a  flute  the  fairy  blew. 
Like  beggared  princes  of  the  wood, 
In  silver  rags  the  birches  stood ; 
The  hemlocks,  lordly  counsellors, 
Were  dumb  ;  the  sturdy  servitors, 
In  beechen  jackets  patched  and  gray, 
Seemed  waiting  spellbound  all  the  day 
That  low,  entrancing  note  to  hear,  — 
"  Pe-wee !  pe-wee !  peer !  " 


16      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

I  quit  the  search,  and  sat  me  down 

Beside  the  brook,  irresolute, 

And  watched  a  little  bird  in  suit 
Of  sober  olive,  soft  and  brown, 

Perched  in  the  maple-branches,  mute : 
With  greenish  gold  its  vest  was  fringed, 
Its  tiny  cap  was  ebon-tinged, 
With  ivory  pale  its  wings  were  barred, 
And  its  dark  eyes  were  tender-starred. 
"  Dear  bird,"  I  said,  "  what  is  thy  name  ?  " 
And  thrice  the  mournful  answer  came, 

So  faint  and  far,  and  yet  so  near,  — 
"  Pe-wee  !  pe-wee  !  peer  !  " 

For  so  I  found  my  forest  bird,  — 

The  pewee  of  the  loneliest  woods, 

Sole  singer  in  these  solitudes, 
Which  never  robin's  whistle  stirred, 

Where  never  bluebird's  plume  intrudes. 
Quick  darting  through  the  dewy  morn, 
The  redstart  trilled  his  twittering  horn, 
And  vanished  in  thick  boughs  :  at  even, 
Like  liquid  pearls  fresh  showered  from  heaven, 
The  high  notes  of  the  lone  wood-thrush 
Fall  on  the  forest's  holy  hush : 

But  thou  all  day  complainest  here,  — 
"  Pe-wee !  pe-wee  !  peer  !  " 

Hast  thou,  too,  in  thy  little  breast, 
Strange  longings  for  a  happier  lot,  — 
For  love,  for  life,  thou  know'st  not  what,  — 
A  yearning,  and  a  vague  unrest, 

For  something  still  which  thou  hast  not  ?  — 
Thou  soul  of  some  benighted  child 
That  perished,  crying  in  the  wild ! 
Or  lost,  forlorn,  and  wandering  maid, 
By  love  allured,  by  love  betrayed, 
Whose  spirit  with  her  latest  sigh 
Arose,  a  little  winged  cry, 

Above  her  chill  and  mossy  bier ! 
"  Dear  me !  dear  me !  dear  !  " 


MIDSUMMER  17 


Ah,  no  such  piercing  sorrow  mars 
The  pewee's  life  of  cheerful  ease  I 
He  sings,  or  leaves  his  song  to  seize 
An  insect  sporting  in  the  bars 

Of  mild  bright  light  that  gild  the 
A  very  poet  he !     For  him 
All  pleasant  places  still  and  dim : 
His  heart,  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire, 
Burns  with  undying,  sweet  desire : 
And  so  he  sings ;  and  so  his  song, 
Though  heard  not  by  the  hurrying  throng, 
Is  solace  to  the  pensive  ear : 
"Pewee!  pewee!  peer!" 


MIDSUMMER 

AROUND  this  lovely  valley  rise 
The  purple  hills  of  Paradise. 

0  softly  on  yon  banks  of  haze 
Her  rosy  face  the  Summer  lays ! 

Becalmed  along  the  azure  sky, 
The  argosies  of  cloudland  lie, 
Whose  shores,  with  many  a  shining  rift, 
Far  off  their  pearl-white  peaks  uplift. 

Through  all  the  long  midsummer-day 
The  meadow-sides  are  sweet  with  hay. 

1  seek  the  coolest  sheltered  seat, 

Just  where  the  field  and  forest  meet,  — 
Where  grow  the  pine-trees  tall  and  bland, 
The  ancient  oaks  austere  and  grand, 
And  fringy  roots  and  pebbles  fret 
The  ripples  of  the  rivulet. 

I  watch  the  mowers,  as  they  go 
Through  the  tall  grass,  a  white-sleeved  row. 
With  even  stroke  their  scythes  they  swing, 
In  tune  their  merry  whetstones  ring. 


18      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Behind  the  nimble  youngsters  run, 
And  toss  the  thick  swaths  in  the  sun. 
The  cattle  graze,  while,  warm  and  still, 
Slopes  the  broad  pasture,  basks  the  hill, 
And  bright,  where  summer  breezes  break, 
The  green  wheat  crinkles  like  a  lake. 

The  butterfly  and  humble-bee 
Come  to  the  pleasant  woods  with  me ; 
Quickly  before  me  runs  the  quail, 
Her  chickens  skulk  behind  the  rail ; 
High  up  the  lonely  wood  dove  sits, 
And  the  woodpecker  pecks  and  flits. 
Sweet  woodland  music  sinks  and  swells, 
The  brooklet  rings  its  tinkling  bells, 
The  swarming  insects  drone  and  hum, 
The  partridge  beats  his  throbbing  drum. 
The  squirrel  leaps  among  the  boughs, 
And  chatters  in  his  leafy  house. 
The  oriole  flashes  by ;  and,  look ! 
Into  the  mirror  of  the  brook, 
Where  the  vain  bluebird  trims  his  coat, 
Two  tiny  feathers  fall  and  float. 

As  silently,  as  tenderly, 
The  down  of  peace  descends  on  me. 
O,  this  is  peace !     I  have  no  need 
Of  friend  to  talk,  of  book  to  read : 
A  dear  Companion  here  abides ; 
Close  to  my  thrilling  heart  He  hides ; 
The  holy  silence  is  His  Voice : 
I  lie  and  listen,  and  rejoice. 


MY  COMRADE   AND   I 

WE  two  have  grown  up  so  divinely  together, 
Flower  within  flower  from  seed  within  seed, 

The  sagest  astrologer  cannot  say  whether 

His  being  or  mine  was  first  called  and  decreed, 


MY   COMRADE  AND   I  19 

In  the  life  before  birth,  by  inscrutable  ties, 

We  were  linked  each  to  each  ;  I  am  bound  up  in  him ; 

He  sickens,  I  languish ;  without  me  he  dies  ; 
I  am  life  of  his  life,  he  is  limb  of  my  limb. 

Twin  babes  from  one  cradle,  I  tottered  about  with  him, 

Chased  the  bright  butterflies,  singing,  a  boy  with  him ; 
Still  as  a  man  I  am  borne  in  and  out  with  him, 

Sup  with  him,  sleep  with  him,  suffer,  enjoy  with  him. 
Faithful  companion,  me  long  he  has  carried 

Unseen  in  his  bosom,  a  lamp  to  his  feet ; 
More  near  than  a  bridegroom,  to  him  I  am  married, 

As  light  in  the  sunbeam  is  wedded  to  heat. 

If  my  beam  be  withdrawn  he  is  senseless  and  blind ; 

I  am  sight  to  his  vision,  I  hear  with  his  ears ; 
His  the  marvellous  brain,  I  the  masterful  mind ; 

I  laugh  with  his  laughter  and  weep  with  his  tears 
So  well  that  the  ignorant  deem  us  but  one : 

They  see  but  one  shape  and  they  name  us  one  name. 
O  pliant  accomplice  !  what  deeds  we  have  done, 

Thus  banded  together  for  glory  or  shame ! 

When  evil  waylays  us,  and  passion  surprises, 

And  we  are  too  feeble  to  strive  or  to  fly, 
When  hunger  compels  or  when  pleasure  entices, 

Which  most  is  the  sinner,  my  comrade  or  I  ? 
And  when  over  perils  and  pains  and  temptations 

I  triumph,  where  still  I  should  falter  and  faint, 
But  for  him,  iron-nerved  for  heroical  patience, 

Whose  then  is  the  virtue,  and  which  is  the  saint  ? 

Am  I  the  one  sinner  ?  of  honors  sole  claimant 

For  actions  which  only  we  two  can  perform  ? 
Am  I  the  true  creature,  and  thou  but  the  raiment  ? 

Thou  magical  mantle,  all  vital  and  warm, 
Wrapped  about  me,  a  screen  from  the  rough  winds  of  Time, 

Of  texture  so  flexile  to  feature  and  gesture  ! 
Can  ever  I  part  from  thee  ?     Is  there  a  clime 

Where  Life  needs  no  more  this  terrestrial  vesture  ? 


20      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  comes  the  sad  summons  to  sever  the  sweet 

Subtle  tie  that  unites  us,  and  tremulous,  fearful, 
I  feel  thy  loosed  fetters  depart  from  my  feet ; 

When  friends  gathered  round  us,  pale-visaged  and  tearful, 
Beweep  and  bewail  thee,  thou  fair  earthly  prison ! 

And  kiss  thy  cold  doors,  for  thy  inmate  mistaken  ; 
Their  eyes  seeing  not  the  freed  captive,  arisen 

From  thy  trammels  unclasped  and  thy  shackles  downshaken ; 

O,  then  shall  I  linger,  reluctant  to  break 

The  dear  sensitive  chains  that  about  me  have  grown  ? 

And  all  this  bright  world,  can  I  bear  to  forsake 
Its  embosoming  beauty  and  love,  and  alone 

Journey  on  to  I  know  not  what  regions  untried  ? 
Exists  there,  beyond  the  dim  cloud-rack  of  death, 

Such  life  as  enchants  us  ?     O  skies  arched  and  wide ! 

0  delicate  senses !     O  exquisite  breath ! 

Ah,  tenderly,  tenderly  over  thee  hovering, 

1  shall  look  down  on  thee  empty  and  cloven, 
Pale  mould  of  my  being  !  —  thou  visible  covering 

Wherefrom  my  invisible  raiment  is  woven. 
Though  sad  be  the  passage,  nor  pain  shall  appall  me, 

Nor  parting,  assured,  wheresoever  I  range 
The  glad  fields  of  existence,  that  naught  can  befall  me 

That  is  not  still  beautiful,  blessed,  and  strange. 


LA  CANTATRICE 

BY  day,  at  a  high  oak  desk  I  stand, 
And  trace  in  a  ledger  line  by  line  ; 

But  at  five  o'clock  yon  dial's  hand 
Opens  the  cage  wherein  I  pine  ; 

And  as  faintly  the  stroke  from  the  belfry  peals 

Down  through  the  thunder  of  hoofs  and  wheels, 

I  wonder  if  ever  a  monarch  feels 
Such  royal  joy  as  mine ! 

Beatrice,  with  her  little  banquet,  waits  ; 
I  know  she  has  heard  that  signal-chime ; 


LA   CANTATRICE  21 


And  my  strong  heart  leaps  and  palpitates, 

As  lightly  the  winding  stair  I  climb 
To  her  fragrant  room,  where  the  winter's  gloom 
Is  changed  by  the  heliotrope's  perfume, 
And  the  shaded  lamp's  soft  crimson  bloom, 
To  love's  own  summer  prime. 

She  meets  me  there,  so  strangely  fair 

That  my  soul  aches  with  a  happy  pain.  — 

And  now  —  a  touch  of  her  true  lips,  such 
As  a  seraph  might  give  and  take  again ; 

A  lingering  pressure  :  "  Adieu  !  adieu ! 

They  wait  for  me  while  I  stay  for  you !  " 

And  a  parting  smile  of  her  dark  eyes  through 
The  glimmering  carriage-pane. 

O,  not  as  we  parted  once,  we  part ! 

Then,  years  of  waiting  and  sacrifice  ; 
Exile  for  her,  while  her  glorious  art 

Unfolded  and  flowered  in  sunnier  skies : 
The  slow,  laborious,  lonely  years, 
The  nights  of  longing,  of  doubts  and  fears,  — 
Her  heart's  sweet  debt,  and  the  long  arrears 
Of  love  in  those  dear  dark  eyes  ! 

0  night !  be  friendly  to  her  and  me !  — 
To  floor  and  aisle  and  balcony  swarm 

The  expectant  throngs  ;  —  I  am  there  to  see  ;  — 

And  now  she  is  bending  her  radiant  form 
To  the  clapping  crowd  ;  —  I  am  thrilled  and  proud  ; 
My  dim  eyes  look  through  a  misty  cloud, 
And  my  joy  mounts  up  on  the  plaudits  loud, 
As  a  sea-bird  on  a  storm  ! 

A  murmur  and  ripple  of  strings,  as  the  rush 
Of  applause  sinks  down :  then  silverly 

Her  voice  glides  forth  on  the  quivering  hush, 
As  the  white-robed  moon  on  a  tremulous  sea ! 

And  wherever  her  shining  influence  calls, 

1  swing  on  the  billow  that  swells  and  falls,  — 


22      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

I  know  no  more,  —  till  the  very  walls 
Seem  joining  the  jubilee ! 

Little  she  cares  for  the  fop  who  airs 
His  glove  and  glass,  or  the  gay  array 

Of  fans  and  perfumes,  of  jewels  and  plumes, 
Where  wealth  and  pleasure  have  met  to  pay 

Their  nightly  homage  to  her  sweet  song ; 

But  over  the  bravas  clear  and  strong, 

Over  all  the  flaunting  and  fluttering  throng, 
She  smiles  my  soul  away. 

Why  am  I  happy  ?  why  am  I  proud  ? 

Can  it  be  true  she  is  all  my  own  ?  — 
I  make  my  way  through  the  ignorant  crowd  ; 

I  know,  I  know  where  my  love  has  flown. 
Again  we  meet ;  I  am  here  at  her  feet, 
And  with  kindling  kisses  and  promises  sweet, 
Her  glowing,  victorious  lips  repeat 
That  they  sing  for  me  alone  ! 


BEAUTY 

FOND  lover  of  the  Ideal  Fair, 
My  soul,  eluded  everywhere, 
Is  lapsed  into  a  sweet  despair. 

Perpetual  pilgrim,  seeking  ever, 
Baffled,  enamored,  finding  never  ; 
Each  morn  the  cheerful  chase  renewing, 
Misled,  bewildered,  still  pursuing  ; 
Not  all  my  lavished  years  have  bought 
One  steadfast  smile  from  her  I  sought, 
But  sidelong  glances,  glimpsing  light, 
A  something  far  too  fine  for  sight, 
Veiled  voices,  far-off  thridding  strains, 
And  precious  agonies  and  pains  : 
Not  love,  but  only  love's  dear  wound 
And  exquisite  unrest  I  found. 


BEAUTY  23 


At  early  morn  I  saw  her  pass 

The  lone  lake's  blurred  and  quivering  glass  ; 

Her  trailing  veil  of  amber  mist 

The  unbending  beaded  clover  kissed  ; 

And  straight  I  hasted  to  waylay 

Her  coming  by  the  willowy  way  ;  — 

But,  swift  companion  of  the  Dawn, 

She  left  her  footprints  on  the  lawn, 

And,  in  arriving,  she  was  gone. 

Alert  I  ranged  the  winding  shore  ; 
Her  luminous  presence  flashed  before  ; 
The  wild-rose  and  the  daisies  wet 
From  her  light  touch  were  trembling  yet ; 
Faint  smiled  the  conscious  violet. 
Each  bush  and  brier  and  rock  betrayed 
Some  tender  sign  her  parting  made  ; 
And  when  far  on  her  flight  I  tracked 
To  where  the  thunderous  cataract 
O'er  walls  of  foamy  ledges  broke, 
She  vanished  in  the  vapory  smoke. 

To-night  I  pace  this  pallid  floor, 
The  sparkling  waves  curl  up  the  shore, 
The  August  moon  is  flushed  and  full ; 
The  soft,  low  winds,  the  liquid  lull, 
The  whited,  silent,  misty  realm, 
The  wan-blue  heaven,  each  ghostly  elm, 
All  these,  her  ministers,  conspire 
To  fill  my  bosom  with  the  fire 
And  sweet  delirium  of  desire. 
Enchantress  !  leave  thy  sheeny  height, 
Descend,  be  all  mine  own  this  night, 
Transfuse,  enfold,  entrance  me  quite  ! 
Or  break  thy  spell,  my  heart  restore, 
And  disenchant  me  evermore ! 


24  THE  VAGABONDS   AND   OTHER  POEMS 

SERVICE 

WHEN  I  beheld  a  lover  woo 

A  maid  unwilling, 
And  saw  what  lavish  deeds  men  do, 

Hope's  flagon  filling,  — 
What  vines  are  tilled,  what  wines  are  spilled, 

And  madly  wasted, 
To  fill  the  flask  that 's  never  filled, 

And  rarely  tasted : 

Devouring  all  life's  heritage, 

And  inly  starving ; 
Dulling  the  spirit's  mystic  edge, 

The  banquet  carving ; 
Feasting  with  Pride,  that  Barmecide 

Of  unreal  dishes ; 
And  wandering  ever  in  a  wide, 

Wide  world  of  wishes : 

For  gain  or  glory,  lands  and  seas 

Endlessly  ranging, 
Safety  and  years  and  health  and  ease 

Freely  exchanging :  — 
When,  ever  as  I  moved,  I  saw 

Pride  and  privation, 
Then  turned,  O  Love  !  to  thy  sweet  law 

And  compensation,  — 

Well  might  red  shame  my  cheek  consume ! 

0  service  slighted ! 

O  Bride  of  Paradise,  to  whom 

1  long  was  plighted ! 

Do  I  with  burning  lips  profess 

To  serve  thee  wholly, 
Yet  labor  less  for  blessedness 

ThanfoolsforfoUy? 

The  wary  worldling  spread  his  toils 
Whilst  I  was  sleeping  ; 


SERVICE  25 


The  wakeful  miser  locked  his  spoils, 

Keen  vigils  keeping : 
I  loosed  the  latches  of  my  soul 

To  pleading  Pleasure, 
Who  stayed  one  little  hour,  and  stole 

My  heavenly  treasure. 

A  friend  for  friend's  sake  will  endure 

Sharp  provocations ; 
And  knaves  are  cunning  to  secure, 

By  cringing  patience, 
And  smiles  upon  a  smarting  cheek, 

Some  dear  advantage,  — 
Swathing  their  grievances  in  meek 

Submission's  bandage. 

Yet  for  thy  sake  I  will  not  take 

One  drop  of  trial, 
But  raise  rebellious  hands  to  break 

The  bitter  vial. 
At  hardship's  surly-visaged  churl 

My  spirit  sallies  ; 
And  melts,  0  Peace  !  thy  priceless  pearl 

In  passion's  chalice. 

Yet  never  quite,  in  darkest  night, 

Was  I  forsaken  : 
Down  trickles  still  some  starry  rill 

My  heart  to  waken. 
O  Love  Divine  !  could  I  resign 

This  changeful  spirit 
To  walk  thy  ways,  what  wealth  of  grace 

Might  I  inherit ! 

If  one  poor  flower  of  thanks  to  thee 

Be  truly  given, 
All  night  thou  snowest  down  to  me 

Lilies  of  heaven ! 
One  task  of  human  love  fulfilled, 

Thy  glimpses  tender 


26      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

My  days  of  lonely  labor  gild 
With  gleams  of  splendor  ! 

One  prayer,  —  "  Thy  will,  not  mine  !  "  —  and  bright, 

O'er  all  my  being, 
Breaks  blissful  light,  that  gives  to  sight 

A  subtler  seeing ; 
Straightway  mine  ear  is  tuned  to  hear 

Ethereal  numbers, 
Whose  secret  symphonies  insphere 

The  dull  earth's  slumbers. 

"  Thy  will !  "  —  and  I  am  armed  to  meet 

Misfortune's  volleys ; 
For  every  sorrow  I  have  sweet, 

O,  sweetest  solace ! 
For  me  the  diamond  dawns  are  set 

In  rings  of  beauty, 
And  all  my  paths  are  dewy  wet 

With  pleasant  duty. 


AT  SEA 

THE  night  is  made  for  cooling  shade, 

For  silence,  and  for  sleep  ; 
And  when  I  was  a  child,  I  laid 
My  hands  upon  my  breast  and  prayed, 

And  sank  to  slumbers  deep  : 
Childlike  as  then,  I  lie  to-night, 
And  watch  my  lonely  cabin  light. 

Each  movement  of  the  swaying  lamp 

Shows  how  the  vessel  reels  : 
As  o'er  her  deck  the  billows  tramp, 
And  all  her  timbers  strain  and  cramp, 

With  every  shock  she  feels, 
It  starts  and  shudders,  while  it  burns, 
And  in  its  hinge'd  socket  turns. 


REAL  ESTATE  27 


Now  swinging  slow,  and  slanting  low, 

It  almost  level  lies  ; 
And  yet  I  know,  while  to  and  fro 
I  watch  the  seeming  pendule  go 

With  restless  fall  and  rise, 
The  steady  shaft  is  still  upright, 
Poising  its  little  globe  of  light. 

0  hand  of  God !  O  lamp  of  peace  ! 
O  promise  of  my  soul !  — 

Though  weak,  and  tossed,  and  ill  at  ease, 
Amid  the  roar  of  smiting  seas, 
The  ship's  convulsive  roll, 

1  own,  with  love  and  tender  awe, 
Yon  perfect  type  of  faith  and  law  ! 

A  heavenly  trust  my  spirit  calms, 

My  soul  is  filled  with  light : 
The  ocean  sings  his  solemn  psalms, 
The  wild  winds  chant :  I  cross  my  palms, 

Happy  as  if,  to-night, 
Under  the  cottage-roof,  again 
I  heard  the  soothing  summer-rain. 

REAL  ESTATE 

THE  pleasant  grounds  are  greenly  turfed  and  graded ; 

A  sturdy  porter  waits  beside  the  gate  ; 
The  graceful  avenues,  serenely  shaded, 
And  curving  paths,  are  interlaced  and  braided 

In  many  a  maze  around  my  fair  estate. 

Here  blooms  the  early  hyacinth,  and  clover 

And  amaranth  and  myrtle  wreathe  the  ground ; 

The  pensive  lily  leans  her  pale  cheek  over ; 

And  hither  comes  the  bee,  light-hearted  rover, 

Wooing  the  sweet-breathed  flowers  with  soothing  sound. 

Intwining,  in  their  manifold  digressions, 

Lands  of  my  neighbors,  wind  these  peaceful  ways. 


28      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  masters,  coming  to  their  calm  possessions, 
Followed  in  solemn  state  by  long  processions, 

Make  quiet  journeys  these  still  summer  days. 

This  is  my  freehold  !     Elms  and  fringy  larches, 
Maples  and  pines,  and  stately  firs  of  Norway, 

Build  round  me  their  green  pyramids  and  arches  ; 

Sweetly  the  robin  sings,  while  slowly  marches 

The  stately  pageant  past  my  verdant  doorway. 

O,  sweetly  sing  the  robin  and  the  sparrow  ! 

But  the  pale  tenant  very  silent  rides. 
A  low  green  roof  bends  over  him ;  —  so  narrow 
His  hollowed  tenement,  a  schoolboy's  arrow 

Might  span  the  space  betwixt  its  grassy  sides. 

The  flowers  around  him  ring  their  wind-swung  chalices, 

A  great  bell  tolls  the  pageant's  slow  advance. 
The  poor  alike,  and  lords  of  parks  and  palaces, 
From  all  their  busy  schemes,  their  fears  and  fallacies, 
Find  here  their  rest  and  sure  inheritance. 

No  more  had  Caesar  or  Sardanapalus  ! 

Of  all  our  wide  dominions,  soon  or  late, 
Only  a  fathom's  space  can  aught  avail  us ; 
This  is  the  heritage  that  shall  not  fail  us  : 

Here  man  at  last  comes  to  his  Real  Estate. 


BY  THE   RIVER 
I 

IN  the  beautiful  greenwood's  charmed  light, 
And  down  through  the  meadows  wide  and  bright, 
Deep  in  the  silence,  and  smooth  in  the  gleam, 
For  ever  and  ever  flows  the  stream. 

Where  the  mandrakes  grow,  and  the  pale,  thin  grass 

The  airy  scarf  of  the  woodland  weaves, 

By  dim,  enchanted  paths  I  pass, 

Crushing  the  twigs  and  the  last  year's  leaves. 


BY  THE  RIVER  29 


Over  the  wave,  by  the  crystal  brink, 
A  kingfisher  sits  on  a  low,  dead  limb  : 
He  is  always  sitting  there,  I  think,  — 
And  another,  within  the  crystal  brink, 
Is  always  pendent  under  him. 

I  know  where  an  old  tree  leans  across 

From  bank  to  bank,  an  ancient  tree, 

Quaintly  cushioned  with  curious  moss, 

A  bridge  for  the  cool  wood-nymphs  and  me : 

Half  seen  they  flit,  while  here  I  sit 

By  the  magical  water,  watching  it. 

In  its  bosom  swims  the  fair  phantasm 
Of  a  subterraneous  azure  chasm, 
So  soft  and  clear,  you  would  say  the  stream 
Was  dreaming  of  heaven  a  visible  dream. 

Where  the  noontide  basks,  and  its  warm  rays  tint 

The  nettles  and  clover  and  scented  mint, 

And  the  crinkled  airs,  that  curl  and  quiver, 

Drop  their  wreaths  in  the  mirroring  river, 

Along  its  sinuous  shining  bed 

In  sheets  of  splendor  it  lies  outspread. 

In  the  twilight  stillness  and  solitude 

Of  green  caves  roofed  by  the  brooding  wood, 

Where  the  woodbine  swings,  and  beneath  the  trailing 

Sprays  of  the  queenly  elm-tree  sailing,  — 

By  ribbed  and  wave-worn  ledges  shimmering, 

Gilding  the  rocks  with  a  rippled  glimmering, 

All  pictured  over  in  shade  and  sun, 

The  wavering  silken  waters  run. 

Upon  this  mossy  trunk  I  sit, 

Over  the  river,  watching  it. 

A  shadowed  face  peers  up  at  me ; 

And  another  tree  in  the  chasm  I  see, 

Clinging  above  the  abyss  it  spans ; 

The  broad  boughs  curve  their  spreading  fans, 


THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

From  side  to  side,  in  the  nether  air ; 

And  phantom  birds  in  the  phantom  branches 

Mimic  the  birds  above  ;  and  there, 

Oh !  far  below,  solemn  and  slow, 

The  white  clouds  roll  the  crumbling  snow 

Of  ever-pendulous  avalanches, 

Till  the  brain  grows  giddy,  gazing  through 

Their  wild,  wide  rifts  of  bottomless  blue. 


II 

Through  the  river,  and  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  sundered  earth  I  gaze, 

While  Thought  on  dreamy  pinion  drifts, 

Over  cerulean  bays, 

Into  the  deep  ethereal  sea 

Of  her  own  serene  eternity. 

Transfigured  by  my  tranced  eye, 
Wood  and  meadow,  and  stream  and  sky, 
Like  vistas  of  a  vision  lie  : 
THE  WORLD  is  the  River  that  flickers  by. 

Its  skies  are  the  blue-arched  centuries; 
And  its  forms  are  the  transient  images 
Flung  on  the  flowing  film  of  Time 
By  the  steadfast  shores  of  a  fadeless  clime. 

My  Soul  leans  over  the  murmuring  flow, 
And  I  am  the  image  it  sees  below. 


THE   NAME   IN  THE   BARK 

THE  self  of  so  long  ago, 

And  the  self  I  struggle  to  know, 
I  sometimes  think  we  are  two,  —  or  are  we  shadows  of  one  ? 

To-day  the  shadow  I  am 

Returns  in  the  sweet  summer  calm 
To  trace  where  the  earlier  shadow  flitted  awhile  in  the  sun. 


THE   NAME   IN   THE   BARK  31 

Once  more  in  the  dewy  morn 

I  came  through  the  whispering  corn  ; 
Cool  to  my  fevered  cheek  soft  breezy  kisses  were  blown ; 

The  ribboned  and  tasselled  grass 

Leaned  over  the  flattering  glass, 
And  the  sunny  waters  trilled  the  same  low  musical  tone. 

To  the  gray  old  birch  I  came, 

Where  I  whittled  my  schoolboy  name  : 
The  nimble  squirrel  once  more  ran  skippingly  over  the  rail, 

The  blackbirds  down  among 

The  alders  noisily  sung, 
And  under  the  blackberry-brier  whistled  the  serious  quail. 

I  came,  remembering  well 

How  my  little  shadow  fell, 
As  I  painfully  reached  and  wrote  to  leave  to  the  future  a  sign : 

There,  stooping  a  little,  I  found 

A  half -healed,  curious  wound, 
An  ancient  scar  in  the  bark,  but  no  initial  of  mine  ! 

Then  the  wise  old  boughs  overhead 

Took  counsel  together,  and  said,  — 
And  the  buzz  of  their  leafy  lips  like  a  murmur  of  prophecy  passed,  — 

"  He  is  busily  carving  a  name 

In  the  tough  old  wrinkles  of  fame ; 
But,  cut  he  as  deep  as  he  may,  the  lines  will  close  over  at  last !  " 

Sadly  I  pondered  awhile, 

Then  I  lifted  my  soul  with  a  smile, 
And  I  said,  "  Not  cheerful  men,  but  anxious  children  are  we, 

Still  hurting  ourselves  with  the  knife, 

As  we  toil  at  the  letters  of  life, 
Just  marring  a  little  the  rind,  never  piercing  the  heart  of  the  tree." 

And  now  by  the  rivulet's  brink 

I  leisurely  saunter,  and  think 
How  idle  this  strife  will  appear  when  circling  ages  have  run, 

If  then  the  real  I  am 

Descend  from  the  heavenly  calm, 
To  trace  where  the  shadow  I  seem  once  flitted  awhile  in  the  sun. 


32  THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE   SWORD   OF   BOLIVAR1 

WITH  the  steadfast  stars  above  us, 

And  the  molten  stars  below, 
We  sailed  through  the  Southern  midnight, 

By  the  coast  of  Mexico. 

Alone,  on  the  desolate,  dark-ringed, 

Rolling  and  flashing  sea, 
A  grim  old  Venezuelan 

Kept  the  deck  with  me, 

And  talked  to  me  of  his  country, 

And  the  long  Spanish  war, 
And  told  how  a  young  Republic 

Forged  the  sword  of  Bolivar. 

That  it  might  shine  the  symbol 

Of  law  and  light  in  the  land, 
Dropped  down  as  a  star  from  heaven, 

To  flame  in  a  hero's  hand, 

And  be  to  the  world  a  token 

Of  eternal  might  and  right, 
For  the  chaste,  bright  steel  was  chosen 

A  sky-born  aerolite. 

For  the  fair  states,  New  Granada 
And  Venezuela,  they  pour 

1  The  Republic  of  Colombia,  comprising  New  Granada  and  Venezuela,  was  pro 
claimed  by  Bolivar  in  1819  and  dismembered,  soon  after  his  death,  in  1831.  The  story 
of  the  sword  forged  from  meteoric  ore  has  a  foundation  in  fact ;  and  the  character 
of  the  so-called  Liberator  —  who  has  been  likened  to  our  Washington,  and  who  is 
honored  with  a  monument  in  his  native  city  of  Caracas  —  is,  I  believe,  not  unfairly 
sketched  in  the  lines,  allowance  being  made  for  some  political  bias  on  the  part  of  the 
"  grim  old  Venezuelan."  Still  larger  allowance  must  be  craved  for  the  too  pointed 
application  of  the  fable  to  Lincoln's  unfortunate  successor  in  the  Presidency,  disap 
pointment  and  indignation  at  whose  weak,  undignified,  reactionary  conduct  in  office 
formed  the  shaping  motive  of  the  poem,  —  feelings  long  since  softened  by  time  and 
a  juster  perspective.  The  poem,  first  printed  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  November, 
1866,  was  written  in  the  August  or  September  of  that  year,  now  almost  thirty-seven 
years  ago. 

ARLINGTON,  August,  1903. 


THE   SWORD   OF  BOLIVAR  33 

From  twin  crucibles  the  dazzling 
White  meteoric  ore. 

In  two  ingots  it  is  moulded, 

And  welded  into  one, 
For  an  emblem  of  Colombia, 

Proud  daughter  of  the  sun ! 

In  the  din  of  the  forge  it  is  fashioned, 

It  is  heated  and  hammered  and  rolled, 
It  is  tempered  and  edged  and  burnished, 

And  set  in  a  hilt  of  gold ; 

For  thus  by  the  fire  and  the  hammer 

Of  war  a  nation  is  built, 
And  ever  the  sword  of  its  power 

Is  swayed  by  a  golden  hilt. 

Then  with  pomp  and  oratory 

The  mustachioed  senores  brought 
To  the  house  of  the  Liberator 

The  weapon  they  had  wrought ; 

And  they  said,  in  their  stately  phrases, 

"  O  mighty  in  peace  and  war ! 
No  mortal  blade  we  bring  you, 

But  a  flaming  meteor. 

"  The  sword  of  the  Spaniard  is  broken, 

And  to  you  in  its  stead  is  given, 
To  lead  and  redeem  a  nation, 
This  ray  of  light  from  heaven." 

The  gaunt-faced  Liberator 

From  their  hands  the  symbol  took, 
And  waved  it  aloft  in  the  sunlight, 

With  a  high,  heroic  look ; 

And  he  called  the  saints  to  witness  : 
"  May  these  lips  turn  into  dust, 


34      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  this  right  hand  fail,  if  ever 
It  prove  recreant  to  its  trust ! 

"  Never  the  sigh  of  a  bondman 

Shall  cloud  this  gleaming  steel, 
But  only  the  foe  and  the  traitor 
Its  vengeful  edge  shall  feel. 

"  Never  a  tear  of  my  country 

Its  purity  shall  stain, 
Till  into  your  hands,  who  gave  it, 
I  render  it  again." 

Now  if  ever  a  chief  was  chosen 
To  cover  a  cause  with  shame, 

And  if  ever  there  breathed  a  caitiff, 
Bolivar  was  his  name. 

From  his  place  among  the  people 
To  the  highest  seat  he  went, 

By  the  winding  paths  of  party 
And  the  stair  of  accident. 

A  restless,  weak  usurper, 

Striving  to  rear  a  throne, 
Filling  his  fame  with  counsels 

And  conquests  not  his  own  ;  — 

Now  seeming  to  put  from  him 

The  sceptre  of  command, 
Only  that  he  might  grasp  it 

With  yet  a  firmer  hand ;  — 

His  country's  trusted  leader, 

In  league  with  his  country's  foes, 

Stabbing  the  cause  that  nursed  him, 
And  openly  serving  those  ;  — 

The  chief  of  a  great  republic 
Plotting  rebellion  still,  — 


THE   SWORD   OF  BOLIVAR  35 

An  apostate  faithful  only 
To  his  own  ambitious  will. 

Drunk  with  a  vain  ambition, 

In  his  feeble,  reckless  hand, 
The  sword  of  Eternal  Justice 

Became  but  a  brawler's  brand. 

And  Colombia  was  dissevered, 

Rent  by  factions,  till  at  last 
Her  place  among  the  nations 

Is  a  memory  of  the  past. 

Here  the  grim  old  Venezuelan 

Puffed  fiercely  his  red  cigar 
A  brief  moment,  then  in  the  ocean 

It  vanished  like  a  star : 

And  he  slumbered  in  his  hammock  ; 

And  only  the  ceaseless  rush 
Of  the  reeling  and  sparkling  waters 

Filled  the  solemn  midnight  hush, 

As  I  leaned  by  the  swinging  gunwale 

Of  the  good  ship,  sailing  slow, 
With  the  steadfast  heavens  above  her, 

And  the  molten  heavens  below. 

Then  I  thought  with  sorrow  and  yearning 

Of  my  own  distracted  land, 
And  the  sword  let  down  from  heaven 

To  flame  in  her  ruler's  hand,  — 

The  sword  of  Freedom,  resplendent 

As  a  beam  of  the  morning  star, 
Received,  reviled,  and  dishonored 

By  another  than  Bolivar ! 


36  THE  VAGABONDS   AND   OTHER   POEMS 

LYRICS   OF  THE   WAR 
THE   LAST  RALLY 

[NOVEMBER,  1864.] 

RALLY!  rally!  rally! 

Arouse  the  slumbering  land ! 
Rally !  rally  !  from  mountain  and  valley, 

From  city  and  ocean-strand ! 
Ye  sons  of  the  West,  America's  best ! 

New  Hampshire's  men  of  might ! 
From  prairie  and  crag  unfurl  the  flag, 

And  rally  to  the  fight ! 

Armies  of  untried  heroes, 

Disguised  in  craftsman  and  clerk ! 
Ye  men  of  the  coast,  invincible  host ! 

Come,  every  one,  to  the  work,  — 
From  the  fisherman  gray  as  the  salt-sea  spray 

That  on  Long  Island  breaks, 
To  the  youth  who  tills  the  uttermost  hills 

By  the  blue  northwestern  lakes  ! 

Old  men  shall  fight  with  the  ballot, 

Weapon  the  last  and  best,  — 
And  the  bayonet,  with  blood  red-wet, 

Shall  write  the  will  of  the  rest ; 
And  the  boys  shall  fill  men's  places, 

And  the  little  maid  shall  rock 
Her  doll  as  she  sits  with  her  grandam  and  knits 

An  unknown  hero's  sock. 

And  the  hearts  of  heroic  mothers, 

And  the  deeds  of  noble  wives, 
With  their  power  to  bless  shall  aid  no  less 

Than  the  brave  who  give  their  lives. 
The  rich  their  gold  shall  bring,  and  the  old 

Shall  help  us  with  their  prayers  ; 
While  hovering  hosts  of  pallid  ghosts 

Attend  us  unawares. 


THE   LAST   RALLY  37 

From  the  ghastly  fields  of  Shiloh 

Muster  the  phantom  bands, 
From  Virginia's  swamps,  and  Death's  white  camps 

On  Carolina  sands ; 
From  Fredericksburg,  and  Gettysburg, 

I  see  them  gathering  fast ; 
And  up  from  Manassas,  what  is  it  that  passes 

Like  thin  clouds  in  the  blast  ? 

From  the  Wilderness,  where  blanches 

The  nameless  skeleton ; 
From  Vicksburg's  slaughter  and  red-streaked  water, 

And  the  trenches  of  Donelson ; 
From  the  cruel,  cruel  prisons, 

Where  their  bodies  pined  away, 
From  groaning  decks,  from  sunken  wrecks, 

They  gather  with  us  to-day. 

And  they  say  to  us,  "  Rally !  rally ! 

The  work  is  almost  done ! 
Ye  harvesters,  sally  from  mountain  and  valley, 

And  reap  the  fields  we  won ! 
We  sowed  for  endless  years  of  peace, 

We  harrowed  and  watered  well ; 
Our  dying  deeds  were  the  scattered  seeds  : 

Shall  they  perish  where  they  fell  ?  " 

And  their  brothers,  left  behind  them 

In  the  deadly  roar  and  clash 
Of  cannon  and  sword,  by  fort  and  ford, 

And  the  carbine's  quivering  flash,  — 
Before  the  Rebel  citadel 

Just  trembling  to  its  fall, 
From  Georgia's  glens,  from  Florida's  fens, 

For  us  they  call,  they  call ! 

One  more  sublime  endeavor 

And  behold  the  dawn  of  peace ! 
One  more  endeavor,  and  war  forever 

Throughout  the  land  shall  cease ! 


38      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

For  ever  and  ever  the  vanquished  power 

Of  slavery  shall  be  slain, 
And  freedom's  stained  and  trampled  flower 

Shall  blossom  white  again ! 


THE   COLOR-BEARER 

'T  WAS  a  fortress  to  be  stormed  : 

Boldly  right  in  view  they  formed, 
All  as  quiet  as  a  regiment  parading : 

Then  in  front  a  line  of  flame  ! 

Then  at  left  and  right  the  same ! 
Two  platoons  received  a  furious  enfilading. 

To  their  places  still  they  filed, 

And  they  smiled  at  the  wild 
Cannonading. 

"  'T  will  be  over  in  an  hour ! 

'T  will  not  be  much  of  a  shower ! 
Never  mind,  my  boys,"  said  he,  "  a  little  drizzling !  " 

Then  to  cross  that  fatal  plain, 

Through  the  whirring,  hurtling  rain 
Of  the  grape-shot  and  the  minie-bullets'  whistling ! 

But  he  nothing  heeds  nor  shuns, 

As  he  runs  with  the  guns 
Brightly  bristling ! 

Leaving  trails  of  dead  and  dying 

In  their  track,  yet  forward  flying 
Like  a  breaker  where  the  gale  of  conflict  rolled  them, 

With  a  foam  of  flashing  light 

Borne  before  them  on  their  bright 
Burnished  barrels,  —  O,  't  was  fearful  to  behold  them  ! 

While  from  ramparts  roaring  loud 

Swept  a  cloud  like  a  shroud 
To  enfold  them  ! 

O,  his  color  was  the  first ! 

Through  the  burying  cloud  he  burst, 


THE  JAGUAR  HUNT  39 

With  the  standard  to  the  battle  forward  slanted  ! 

Through  the  belching,  blinding  breath 

Of  the  flaming  jaws  of  Death, 
With  the  banner  on  the  bastion  to  be  planted ! 

By  the  screaming  shot  that  fell, 

And  the  yell  of  the  shell, 
Nothing  daunted. 

Eight  against  the  bulwark  dashing, 

Over  tangled  branches  crashing, 
'Mid  the  plunging  volleys  thundering  ever  louder, 

There  he  clambers,  there  he  stands, 

With  the  ensign  in  his  hands,  — 
O,  was  ever  hero  handsomer  or  prouder  ? 

Streaked  with  battle-sweat  and  slime 

And  sublime  in  the  grime 
Of  the  powder ! 

T  was  six  minutes,  at  the  least, 

Ere  the  closing  combat  ceased,  — 
Near  as  we  the  mighty  moments  then  could  measure,  — 

And  we  held  our  souls  with  awe, 

Till  his  haughty  flag  we  saw 
On  the  lifting  vapors  drifting  o'er  the  embrasure, 

Saw  it  glimmer  in  our  tears, 

While  our  ears  heard  the  cheers 
Rend  the  azure ! 


THE  JAGUAR  HUNT 

[MAY,  1865] 

THE  dark  jaguar  was  abroad  in  the  land  ; 

His  strength  and  his  fierceness  what  foe  could  withstand  ? 

The  breath  of  his  anger  was  hot  on  the  air, 

And  the  white  lamb  of  Peace  he  had  dragged  to  his  lair. 

Then  up  rose  the  Farmer ;  he  summoned  his  sons : 
"  Now  saddle  your  horses,  now  look  to  your  guns  !  " 


40      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  he  called  to  his  hound,  as  he  sprang  from  the  ground 
To  the  back  of  his  black  pawing  steed  with  a  bound. 

O,  their  hearts,  at  the  word,  how  they  tingled  and  stirred  ! 
They  followed,  all  belted  and  booted  and  spurred. 
"  Buckle  tight,  boys  !  "  said  he,  "  for  who  gallops  with  me, 
Such  a  hunt  as  was  never  before  he  shall  see  ! 

"  This  traitor,  we  know  him  !  for  when  he  was  younger, 
We  flattered  him,  patted  him,  fed  his  fierce  hunger  : 
But  now  far  too  long  we  have  borne  with  the  wrong, 
For  each  morsel  we  tossed  makes  him  savage  and  strong." 

Then  said  one,  "  He  must  die  !  "     And  they  took  up  the  cry, 
"  For  this  last  crime  of  his  he  must  die  !  he  must  die  !  " 
But  the  slow  eldest-born  sauntered  sad  and  forlorn, 
For  his  heart  was  at  home  on  that  fair  hunting-morn. 

"  I  remember,"  he  said,  "  how  this  fine  cub  we  track 
Has  carried  me  many  ?  time  on  his  back  !  " 
And  he  called  to  his  brothers,  "  Fight  gently  !  be  kind  !  " 
And  he  kept  the  d~  3ad  hound,  Retribution,  behind. 

The  dark  jaguar  on  a  bough  in  the  brake 
Crouched,  silent  and  wily,  and  lithe  as  a  snake  : 
They  spied  not  their  game,  but,  as  onward  they  came, 
Through  the  dense  leafage  gleamed  two  red  eyeballs  of  flame. 

Black-spotted,  and  mottled,  and  whiskered,  and  grim, 
White-bellied,  and  yellow,  he  lay  on  the  limb, 
All  so  still  that  you  saw  but  just  one  tawny  paw 
Lightly  reach  through  the  leaves  and  as  softly  withdraw. 

Then  shrilled  his  fierce  cry,  as  the  riders  drew  nigh, 
And  he  shot  from  the  bough  like  a  bolt  from  the  sky  : 
In  the  foremost  he  fastened  his  fangs  as  he  fell, 
While  all  the  black  jungle  reechoed  his  yell. 

O,  then  there  was  carnage  by  field  and  by  flood ! 
The  green  sod  was  crimsoned,  the  rivers  ran  blood, 


DARIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE        41 

The  cornfields  were  trampled,  and  all  in  their  track 
The  beautiful  valley  lay  blasted  and  black. 

Now  the  din  of  the  conflict  swells  deadly  and  loud, 
And  the  dust  of  the  tumult  rolls  up  like  a  cloud : 
Then  afar  down  the  slope  of  the  Southland  recedes 
The  wild  rapid  clatter  of  galloping  steeds. 

With  wide  nostrils  smoking,  and  flanks  dripping  gore, 
The  black  stallion  bore  his  bold  rider  before, 
As  onward  they  thundered  through  forest  and  glen, 
A-hunting  the  dark  jaguar  to  his  den. 

In  April,  sweet  April,  the  chase  was  begun ; 
It  was  April  again,  when  the  hunting  was  done : 
The  snows  of  four  winters  and  four  summers  green 
Lay  red-streaked  and  trodden  and  blighted  between. 

Then  the  monster  stretched  all  his  grim  length  on  the  ground ; 

His  life-blood  was  wasting  from  many  a  wound ; 

Ferocious  and  gory  and  dying  he  lay, 

Amid  heaps  of  the  whitening  bones  of  his  prey. 

"  So  rapine  and  treason  forever  shall  cease !  " 
The  slain  lamb  is  raised,  a  white  angel  of  Peace ! 
Now  Freedom  may  walk  where  the  black  jungle  grew, 
And  all  the  glad  valley  shall  blossom  anew. 


LIGHTER  PIECES 

DARIUS  GREEN  AND  HIS  FLYING-MACHINE 

IF  ever  there  lived  a  Yankee  lad, 
Wise  or  otherwise,  good  or  bad, 
Who,  seeing  the  birds  fly,  did  n't  jump 
With  flapping  arms  from  stake  or  stump, 

Or,  spreading  the  tail 

Of  his  coat  for  a  sail, 


42      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Take  a  soaring  leap  from  post  or  rail, 

And  wonder  why 

He  could  n't  fly, 

And  flap  and  flutter  and  wish  and  try,  — 
If  ever  you  knew  a  country  dunce 
Who  did  n't  try  that  as  often  as  once, 
All  I  can  say  is,  that 's  a  sign 
He  never  would  do  for  a  hero  of  mine. 

An  aspiring  genius  was  D.  Green : 
The  son  of  a  farmer,  —  age  fourteen  ; 
His  body  was  long  and  lank  and  lean,  — 
Just  right  for  flying,  as  will  be  seen  ; 
He  had  two  eyes,  each  bright  as  a  bean, 
And  a  freckled  nose  that  grew  between, 
A  little  awry,  —  for  I  must  mention 
That  he  had  riveted  his  attention 
Upon  his  wonderful  invention, 
Twisting  his  tongue  as  he  twisted  the  strings, 
Working  his  face  as  he  worked  the  wings, 
And  with  every  turn  of  gimlet  and  screw 
Turning  and  screwing  his  mouth  round  too. 

Till  his  nose  seemed  bent 

To  catch  the  scent, 

Around  some  corner,  of  new-baked  pies, 
And  his  wrinkled  cheeks  and  his  squinting  eyes 
Grew  puckered  into  a  queer  grimace, 
That  made  him  look  very  droll  in  the  face, 

And  also  very  wise. 

And  wise  he  must  have  been,  to  do  more 
Than  ever  a  genius  did  before, 
Excepting  Daedalus  of  yore 
And  his  son  Icarus,  who  wore 

Upon  their  backs 

Those  wings  of  wax 
He  had  read  of  in  the  old  almanacs. 
Darius  was  clearly  of  the  opinion, 
That  the  air  is  also  man's  dominion, 
And  that,  with  paddle  or  fin  or  pinion, 


DARIUS   GREEN  AND  HIS   FLYING-MACHINE        43 

We  soon  or  late 

Shall  navigate 

The  azure  as  now  we  sail  the  sea. 
The  thing  looks  simple  enough  to  me  ; 

And  if  you  doubt  it, 
Hear  how  Darius  reasoned  about  it. 

"  Birds  can  fly, 

An'  why  can't  I? 

Must  we  give  in," 

Says  he  with  a  grin, 
"  'T  the  bluebird  an'  phoebe 

Are  smarter  'n  we  be  ? 
Jest  fold  our  hands  an'  see  the  swaller 
An'  blackbird  an'  catbird  beat  us  holler  ? 
Doos  the  leetle  chatterin',  sassy  wren, 
No  bigger  'n  my  thumb,  know  more  than  men  ? 

Jest  show  me  that ! 

Er  prove  't  the  bat 

Hez  got  more  brains  than 's  in  my  hat, 
An'  I  '11  back  down,  an'  not  till  then  !  " 

He  argued  further  :  "  Ner  I  can't  see 
What 's  th'  use  o'  wings  to  a  bumble-bee, 
Fer  to  git  a  livin'  with,  more  'n  to  me ;  — 

Ain't  my  business 

Important  's  his'n  is  ? 

"  That  Icarus 

Was  a  silly  cuss,  — 
Him  an'  his  daddy  Dsedalus. 
They  might  'a'  knowed  wings  made  o'  wax 
Would  n't  stan'  sun-heat  an'  hard  whacks. 

I  '11  make  mine  o'  luther, 

Er  suthin'  er  other." 

And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tinkered  and  planned : 
"  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  show  my  hand 
To  nummies  that  never  can  understand 
The  fust  idee  that 's  big  an'  grand. 


44      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

They  'd  'a'  laft  an'  made  fun 
O'  Creation  itself  afore  't  was  done  !  " 
So  he  kept  his  secret  from  all  the  rest, 
Safely  buttoned  within  his  vest ; 
And  in  the  loft  above  the  shed 
Himself  he  locks,  with  thimble  and  thread 
And  wax  and  hammer  and  buckles  and  screws, 
And  all  such  things  as  geniuses  use  ;  — 
Two  bats  for  patterns,  curious  fellows ! 
A  charcoal-pot  and  a  pair  of  bellows ; 
An  old  hoop-skirt  or  two,  as  well  as 
Some  wire,  and  several  old  umbrellas  ; 
A  carriage-cover,  for  tail  and  wings  ; 
A  piece  of  harness ;  and  straps  and  strings  ; 

And  a  big  strong  box, 

In  which  he  locks 
These  and  a  hundred  other  things. 

His  grinning  brothers,  Reuben  and  Burke 

And  Nathan  and  Jotham  and  Solomon,  lurk 

Around  the  corner  to  see  him  work,  — 

Sitting  cross-legged,  like  a  Turk, 

Drawing  the  waxed  end  through  with  a  jerk, 

And  boring  the  holes  with  a  comical  quirk 

Of  his  wise  old  head,  and  a  knowing  smirk. 

But  vainly  they  mounted  each  other's  backs, 

And  poked  through  knot-holes  and  pried  through  cracks ; 

With  wood  from  the  pile  and  straw  from  the  stacks 

He  plugged  the  knot-holes  and  calked  the  cracks ; 

And  a  bucket  of  water,  which  one  would  think 

He  had  brought  up  into  the  loft  to  drink 

When  he  chanced  to  be  dry, 

Stood  always  nigh, 

For  Darius  was  sly  ! 

And  whenever  at  work  he  happened  to  spy 
At  chink  or  crevice  a  blinking  eye, 
He  let  a  dipper  of  water  fly. 
"  Take  that !  an'  ef  ever  ye  git  a  peep, 
Guess  ye  '11  ketch  a  weasel  asleep  !  " 

And  he  sings  as  he  locks 

His  big  strong  box  :  — 


DARIUS   GREEN  AND  HIS  FLYING-MACHINE        45 

SONG 

"  The  weasel's  head  is  small  an'  trim, 
An'  he  is  leetle  an'  long  an'  slim, 
An'  quick  of  motion  an'  nimble  of  limb, 

An'  ef  yeou  11  be 

Advised  by  me, 
Keep  wide  awake  when  ye  're  ketchin'  him  !  " 

So  day  after  day 
He  stitched  and  tinkered  and  hammered  away, 

Till  at  last  't  was  done,  — 
The  greatest  invention  under  the  sun ! 
"  An'  now,"  says  Darius,  "  hooray  f er  some  fun  !  " 

'T  was  the  Fourth  of  July, 

And  the  weather  was  dry, 
And  not  a  cloud  was  on  all  the  sky, 
Save  a  few  light  fleeces,  which  here  and  there, 

Half  mist,  half  air, 

Like  foam  on  the  ocean  went  floating  by  : 
Just  as  lovely  a  morning  as  ever  was  seen 
For  a  nice  little  trip  in  a  flying-machine. 

Thought  cunning  Darius  :  "  Now  I  shan't  go 
Along  'ith  the  fellers  to  see  the  show. 
I  '11  say  I  've  got  sich  a  terrible  cough  ! 
An'  then,  when  the  folks  'ave  all  gone  off, 

I  '11  hev  full  swing 

Fer  to  try  the  thing, 
An'  practyse  a  leetle  on  the  wing." 

"  Ain't  goin'  to  see  the  celebration  ?  " 
Says  Brother  Nate.     "  No  ;  botheration  ! 
I  've  got  sich  a  cold  —  a  toothache  —  I  — 
My  gracious !  —  feel's  though  I  should  fly  !  " 

Said  Jotham,  "  'Sho  ! 
Guess  ye  better  go." 
But  Darius  said,  "  No  ! 
Should  n't  wonder  'f  yeou  might  see  me,  though, 


46      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

'Long  'bout  noon,  ef  I  git  red 

O'  this  jumpin',  thumpin'  pain  'n  my  head." 

For  all  the  while  to  himself  he  said  :  — 

"  I  tell  ye  what ! 

1 11  fly  a  few  times  around  the  lot, 
To  see  how  't  seems,  then  soon  's  I  've  got 
The  hang  o'  the  thing,  ez  likely  's  not, 

I  '11  astonish  the  nation, 

An'  all  creation, 
By  flyin'  over  the  celebration  ! 
Over  their  heads  I  '11  sail  like  an  eagle ; 
I  '11  balance  myself  on  my  wings  like  a  sea-gull ; 
I  '11  dance  on  the  chimbleys  ;  I  '11  stan'  on  the  steeple  ; 
I  '11  flop  up  to  winders  an'  scare  the  people  ! 
I  '11  light  on  the  libbe'ty-pole,  an'  crow  ; 
An'  I  '11  say  to  the  gawpin'  fools  below, 
'  What  world  's  this  'ere 

That  I  've  come  near  ? ' 

Fer  I  '11  make  'em  b'lieve  I  'm  a  chap  f 'm  the  moon ! 
An'  I  '11  try  a  race  'ith  their  ol'  bulloon." 

He  crept  from  his  bed  ; 
And,  seeing  the  others  were  gone,  he  said, 
"  I  'm  a  gittin'  over  the  cold  'n  my  head." 

And  away  he  sped, 
To  open  the  wonderful  box  in  the  shed. 

His  brothers  had  walked  but  a  little  way 
When  Jotham  to  Nathan  chanced  to  say, 
"  What  on  airth  is  he  up  to,  hey  ?  " 
"  Don'o',  —  the'  's  suthin'  er  other  to  pay, 
Er  he  would  n't  'a'  stayed  to  hum  to-day." 
Says  Burke,  "  His  toothache  's  all  'n  his  eye  ! 
He  never  'd  miss  a  Fo'th-o'-July, 
Ef  he  hed  n't  got  some  machine  to  try." 
Then  Sol,  the  little  one,  spoke  :  "  By  darn ! 
Le  's  hurry  back  an'  hide  'n  the  barn, 
An'  pay  him  fer  tellin'  us  that  yarn !  " 
"  Agreed  !  "    Through  the  orchard  they  creep  back, 


DAEIUS   GREEN  AND   HIS   FLYING-MACHINE        47 

Along  by  the  fences,  behind  the  stack, 
And  one  by  one,  through  a  hole  in  the  wall, 
In  under  the  dusty  barn  they  crawl, 
Dressed  in  their  Sunday  garments  all ; 
And  a  very  astonishing  sight  was  that, 
When  each  in  his  cobwebbed  coat  and  hat 
Came  up  through  the  floor  like  an  ancient  rat. 
And  there  they  hid ; 
And  Reuben  slid 
The  fastenings  back,  and  the  door  undid. 

"  Keep  dark  !  "  said  he, 
"  While  I  squint  an'  see  what  the'  is  to  see." 

As  knights  of  old  put  on  their  mail,  — 

From  head  to  foot 

An  iron  suit, 
Iron  jacket  and  iron  boot, 
Iron  breeches,  and  on  the  head 
No  hat,  but  an  iron  pot  instead, 

And  under  the  chin  the  bail,  — 
I  believe  they  called  the  thing  a  helm ; 
And  the  lid  they  carried  they  called  a  shield ; 
And,  thus  accoutred,  they  took  the  field, 
Sallying  forth  to  overwhelm 
The  dragons  and  pagans  that  plagued  the  realm :  — 

So  this  modern  knight 

Prepared  for  flight, 

Put  on  his  wings  and  strapped  them  tight ; 
Jointed  and  jaunty,  strong  and  light ; 
Buckled  them  fast  to  shoulder  and  hip,  — 
Ten  feet  they  measured  from  tip  to  tip  ! 
And  a  helm  had  he,  but  that  he  wore, 
Not  on  his  head  like  those  of  yore, 
But  more  like  the  helm  of  a  ship. 

"Hush!  "Reuben  said, 
"  He  's  up  in  the  shed  ! 
He  's  opened  the  winder,  —  I  see  his  head  ! 

He  stretches  it  out, 

An'  pokes  it  about, 


48      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Lookin'  to  see  'f  the  coast  is  clear, 
An'  nobody  near  ;  — 

Guess  he  don'o'  who  's  hid  in  here  ! 

He  's  riggin'  a  spring-board  over  the  sill ! 

Stop  laffin',  Solomon  !  Burke,  keep  still ! 

He 's  a  climbin'  out  now  —     Of  all  the  things  ! 

What 's  he  got  on  ?     I  van,  it 's  wings  ! 

An'  that  't  other  thing  ?     I  vum,  it 's  a  tail ! 

An'  there  he  sets  like  a  hawk  on  a  rail ! 

Steppin'  careful,  he  travels  the  length 

Of  his  spring-board,  and  teeters  to  try  its  strength. 

Now  he  stretches  his  wings,  like  a  monstrous  bat ; 

Peeks  over  his  shoulder,  this  way  an'  that, 

Fer  to  see  'f  the'  's  any  one  passin'  by ; 

But  the'  's  on'y  a  ca'f  an'  a  goslin'  nigh. 

They  turn  up  at  him  a  wonderin'  eye, 

To  see  —     The  dragon  !  he  's  goin'  to  fly ! 

Away  he  goes  !     Jimminy  !  what  a  jump ! 
Flop  —  flop  —  an'  plump 
To  the  ground  with  a  thump ! 

Flutt'rin'  an'  flound'rin',  all  'n  a  lump  !  " 

As  a  demon  is  hurled  by  an  angel's  spear, 

Heels  over  head,  to  his  proper  sphere,  — 

Heels  over  head,  and  head  over  heels, 

Dizzily  down  the  abyss  he  wheels,  — 

So  fell  Darius.     Upon  his  crown, 

In  the  midst  of  the  barnyard,  he  came  down, 

In  a  wonderful  whirl  of  tangled  strings, 

Broken  braces  and  broken  springs, 

Broken  tail  and  broken  wings, 

Shooting-stars,  and  various  things  ! 

Away  with  a  bellow  fled  the  calf, 

And  what  was  that  ?     Did  the  gosling  laugh  ? 

'T  is  a  merry  roar 

From  the  old  barn-door, 
And  he  hears  the  voice  of  Jotham  crying, 
"  Say,  D'rius  !  how  de  yeou  like  flyin'  ?  " 

Slowly,  ruefully,  where  he  lay, 

Darius  just  turned  and  looked  that  way, 


WATCHING  THE  CROWS  49 

As  he  stanched  his  sorrowful  nose  with  his  cuff. 
"  Wai,  I  like  flyin'  well  enough," 
He  said ;  "  but  the'  ain't  sich  a  thunderin'  sight 
O'  fun  in  't  when  ye  come  to  light." 

MORAL 

I  just  have  room  for  the  moral  here  : 

And  this  is  the  moral,  —  Stick  to  your  sphere. 

Or  if  you  insist,  as  you  have  the  right, 

On  spreading  your  wings  for  a  loftier  flight, 

The  moral  is,  —  Take  care  how  you  light. 


WATCHING  THE   CROWS 

"  CAW,  caw !  "  —  You  don't  say  so !  —  "  Caw,  caw  !  "  —  What,  once 
more? 

Seems  to  me  I  've  heard  that  observation  before, 

And  I  wish  you  would  some  time  begin  to  talk  sense. 

Come,  I  've  sat  here  about  long  enough  on  the  fence, 

And  I  'd  like  you  to  tell  me  in  confidence  what 

Are  your  present  intentions  regarding  this  lot  ? 

Why  don't  you  do  something  ?  or  else  go  away  ? 
"  Caw,  caw  f  "  —  Does  that  mean  that  they  '11  go  or  they  '11  stay  ? 

While  I  'm  watching  to  learn  what  they  're  up  to,  I  see 

That  for  similar  reasons  they  're  just  watching  me ! 

That 's  right !     Now  be  brave,  and  I  '11  show  you  some  fun ! 
Just  light  within  twenty-nine  yards  of  my  gun. ! 
I  've  hunted  and  hunted  you  all  round  the  lot, 
Now  you  must  come  here,  if  you  want  to  be  shot ! 
"  Caw,  caw  f  "  —  There  they  go  again !     Is  n't  it  strange 
How  they  always  contrive  to  keep  just  out  of  range  ? 
The  scamps  have  been  shot  at  so  often,  they  know 
To  a  rod  just  how  far  the  old  shot-gun  will  throw. 

Now  I  Ve  thought  how  I  '11  serve  'em  to-morrow :  I  '11  play 
The  game  old  Jack  Haskell  played  with  'em  one  day. 
His  snares  would  n't  catch  'em,  his  traps  would  n't  spring, 
And,  in  spite  of  the  very  best  guns  he  could  bring 


50      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

To  bear  on  the  subject,  the  powder  he  spent, 

And  the  terriblest  scarecrows  his  wits  could  invent  — 

Loud-clattering  windmills  and  fluttering  flags, 

Straw-stuffed  old  codgers  rigged  out  in  his  rags, 

And  looking  quite  lifelike  in  tail-coat  and  cap, 

Twine  stretched  round  the  cornfield,  suggesting  a  trap,  — 

Spite  of  all,  —  and  he  did  all  that  ever  a  man  did,  — 

They  pulled  his  corn  almost  before  it  was  planted  ! 

Then  he  built  him  an  ambush  right  out  in  the  field, 

Where  a  man  could  lie  down  at  his  ease,  quite  concealed ; 

But  though  he  kept  watch  in  it,  day  after  day, 

And  the  thieves  would  light  on  it  when  he  was  away, 

And  tear  up  the  corn  all  around  it,  not  once 

Did  a  crow,  young  or  old,  show  himself  such  a  dunce 

As  to  come  within  hail  while  the  old  man  was  there ; 

For  they  are  the  cunningest  fools,  I  declare ! 

And,  seeing  him  enter,  they  reasoned,  no  doubt, 

That  he  must  be  in  there  until  he  came  out ! 

Then,  one  morning,  says  he  to  young  Jack,  "  Now  I  bet 

I  've  got  an  idee  that  '11  do  for  'em  yet ! 

Go  with  me  down  into  the  corn-lot  to-day ; 

Then,  when  I  'm  well  placed  in  the  ambush,  I  '11  stay, 

While  you  shoulder  your  gun  and  march  back  to  the  barn ; 

For  there  's  this  leetle  notion  crows  never  could  larn  : 

They  can't  count,  as  I  '11  show  ye  !  "    And  show  him  he  did ! 

Young  Haskell  went  home  while  old  Haskell  lay  hid. 

And  the  crows'  education  had  been  so  neglected,  — 
They  were  so  poor  in  figures,  —  they  never  suspected, 
If  two  had  come  down,  and  one  only  went  back, 
Then  one  must  remain  !     So,  no  sooner  was  Jack 
Out  of  sight,  than  again  to  the  field  they  came  flocking 
As  thick  as  three  rats  in  a  little  boy's  stocking. 
They  darkened  the  air,  and  they  blackened  the  ground  ; 
They  came  in  a  cloud  to  the  windmill,  and  drowned 
Its  loudest  clacTc-clack  with  a  louder  caw-caw  ! 
They  lit  on  the  tail-coat,  and  laughed  at  the  straw. 
"  By  time  !  "  says  old  Jack,  "  now  I  've  got  ye  !  "     Bang  !  bang  ! 
Blazed  his  short  double-shooter  right  into  the  gang ! 


EVENING  AT  THE  FARM  51 

Then,  picking  the  dead  crows  up  out  of  the  dirt,  he 
Was  pleased  to  perceive  that  he  'd  killed  about  thirty  ! 

Now  that 's  just  the  way  I  '11  astonish  the  rascals  ! 
I  '11  set  up  an  ambush,  like  old  Mr.  Haskell's  — 
"  Caw,  caw  /  "  —  You  're  as  knowing  a  bird  as  I  know  ; 
But  there  are  things  a  little  too  deep  for  a  crow  ! 
Just  add  one  to  one  now,  and  what  's  the  amount  ? 
You  're  mighty  'cute  creeturs,  but,  then,  you  can't  count ! 
You  '11  see  if  I  don't  get  a  shot !     Yes,  I  '11  borrow 
Another  boy  somewhere  and  try  ye  to-morrow ! 


EVENING  AT  THE   FARM 

OVER  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes. 
His  shadow  lengthens  along  the  land, 
A  giant  staff  in  a  giant  hand  ; 
In  the  poplar-tree,  above  the  spring, 
The  katydid  begins  to  sing ; 
The  early  dews  are  falling ;  — 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink  ; 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink ; 
And  home  to  the  woodland  fly  the  crows, 
When  over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 
Cheerily  calling, 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  cb' !  co' !  " 
Farther,  farther,  over  the  hill, 
Faintly  calling,  calling  still, 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss !  co' !  co' !  " 

Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

With  grateful  heart,  at  the  close  of  day : 

Harness  and  chain  are  hung  away ; 

In  the  wagon-shed  stand  yoke  and  plough, 

The  straw  's  in  the  stack,  the  hay  in  the  mow, 

The  cooling  dews  are  falling ;  — 
The  friendly  sheep  his  welcome  bleat, 
The  pigs  come  grunting  to  his  feet, 


52      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  the  whinnying  mare  her  master  knows, 
When  into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 
His  cattle  calling,  — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co' !  " 
While  still  the  cow-boy,  far  away, 
Goes  seeking  those  that  have  gone  astray,  — 

"  Co',  boss !  co',  boss !  co' !  co' !  " 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes. 

The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate, 

Looing,  pushing,  little  and  great ; 

About  the  trough,  by  the  farmyard  pump, 

The  frolicsome  yearlings  frisk  and  jump, 

While  the  pleasant  dews  are  falling  ;  — 
The  new  milch  heifer  is  quick  and  shy, 
But  the  old  cow  waits  with  tranquil  eye, 
And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright  pail  flows, 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 
Soothingly  calling, 

"  So,  boss !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so  !  so  !  " 
The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  her  stool, 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the  twilight  cool, 

Saying  "  So  !  so,  boss  !  so  !  so !  " 

» 

To  supper  at  last  the  farmer  goes. 
The  apples  are  pared,  the  paper  read, 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  bed. 
Without,  the  crickets'  ceaseless  song 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long ; 

The  heavy  dews  are  falling. 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turned  the  lock  ; 
Drowsily  ticks  the  kitchen  clock ; 
The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose, 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes 
Singing,  calling,  — 

"  Co',  boss !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co' !  " 
And  oft  the  milkmaid,  in  her  dreams, 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing  streams, 

Murmuring  "  So,  boss  !  so !  " 


THE   WILD   GOOSE  53 

THE  WILD   GOOSE 

WHEN  gruff  winter  goes,  and  from  under  his  snows 

Peeps  the  infantine  clover, 

And  little  lambs  shrink  on  the  bleak  hills  of  March, 
And  April  comes  smiling  beneath  the  blue  arch, 
Then  the  forester  sees  from  his  door  the  wild  geese 
Flying  over. 

Some  to  Winnipeg's  shore ;  those  to  cold  Labrador ; 

Upon  dark  Memphremagog, 
Swift  flying,  loud  crying,  these  soon  shall  alight, 
And  station  their  sentries  to  guard  them  by  night, 
Or  marshal  their  ranks  to  the  thick-wooded  banks 
Of  Umbagog. 

Now  high  in  the  sky,  scarcely  seen  as  they  fly, 

Like  the  head  of  an  arrow 

Shot  free  from  its  shaft ;  then  a  dark-winged  chain ; 
Or  at  eventide  wearily  over  the  plain, 
Flying  low,  flying  slow,  sagging,  lagging  they  go, 
Like  a  harrow. 

Soon  all  have  departed,  save  one  regal-hearted 

Sad  prisoner  only. 

No  more  shall  he  breast  the  blue  ether,  or  rest 
In  the  reeds  with  his  mate,  keeping  guard  by  her  nest,  — 
Never  glide  by  her  side  down  the  green-fringed  tide 
Fair  and  lonely. 

With  clipped  pinions,  fast  in  a  farmyard,  at  last 

They  have  caged  the  sky-ranger, 
'Mid  the  bustle  and  clucking  and  cackle  of  flocks, 
The  gossip  of  geese,  and  the  crowing  of  cocks ; 
But  apart  from  the  rest,  with  his  proud-curving  breast, 
Walks  the  stranger. 

He  refuses,  with  scorn  braving  hunger,  the  corn 

From  the  hands  of  the  givers, 
Like  a  prince  in  captivity  pacing  his  path ; 


54      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Little  pleasure  he  hath  in  his  low,  stagnant  bath ; 
In  that  green,  standing  pool  does  he  think  of  his  cool 
Northern  rivers  ? 

Far  away,  far  away,  to  some  lone  lake  or  bay 

His  lost  comrades  are  thronging ; 
In  fancy  he  follows ;  he  hears  their  glad  halloos 
Round  beautiful  beaches,  in  bright  plashy  shallows : 
And  now  his  dark  eye  he  turns  up  at  the  sky 
With  wild  longing. 

He  hears  them  all  day,  singing,  winging  their  way, 

Over  mountains  and  torrents, 
To  Canadian  hills  and  their  clear  watercourses, 
To  the  Ottawa's  springs,  to  the  Saguenay's  sources  ; 
And  now  they  are  going  far  down  the  broad-flowing 
Saint  Lawrence. 

Over  grass-land  and  grove,  searching  inlet  and  cove, 

Speeds  in  dreams  the  wild  gander  ! 
He  listens,  he  hastens,  he  screams  on  their  track ; 
They  hear  him,  they  cheer  him,  they  welcome  him  back, 
They  shout  his  proud  name,  and  with  loud  clamors  claim 
Their  Commander ! 

With  his  consort  he  leads  forth  their  young  ones,  and  feeds 

By  the  pleasant  morasses  ; 

He  shows  them  the  tender  young  crab,  and  the  bug, 
The  small  tented  snail,  and  the  slow  mantled  slug, 
And  laughs  as  they  eat  the  soft  seeds  and  the  sweet 
Water-grasses. 

But  danger  is  coming  !    Lo,  strutting  and  drumming, 

The  turkey-cock  charges ! 

The  bright  fancy  breaks,  in  the  farmyard  he  wakes ; 
Nevermore  he  alights  on  the  blue  linked  lakes 
Of  the  North,  or  upsprings  upon  winnowing  wings 
From  their  marges ! 

Here  all  the  long  summer  abides  the  new-comer 
In  chains  ignominious, 


GREEN  APPLES  55 


Abandoned,  companionless,  far  from  his  mate  ; 
But  his  heart  is  still  great  though  dishonored  his  state, 
And  his  eyes  still  are  dreaming  of  glad  waters  gleaming 
And  sinuous. 

Then  the  rude  Equinox  drives  before  it  the  flocks 

Of  his  comrades  returning ; 
They  sail  on  the  gale  high  above  the  Ohio's 
Broad  ribbon,  descending  on  prairies  and  bayous  ; 
And  again  his  dark  eye  is  turned  up  at  the  sky 
With  wild  yearning. 

As  sunward  they  go,  far  below,  far  below, 

Coils  the  pale  Susquehanna ! 
He  sees  them,  far  off  in  the  twilight,  encamp  as 
A  vast  winge'd  host  upon  dim,  ruddy  pampas ; 
Or  at  sunrise  arrayed  upon  green  everglade 
And  savanna. 

So  year  after  year,  as  their  legions  appear, 

His  lost  state  he  remembers ; 
Wondering  and  wistful  he  watches  their  flight, 
Or  starts  at  their  cries  in  the  desolate  night, 
Dropped  down  to  his  hearkening  ear  through  the  darkening 
Novembers. 


GREEN  APPLES 

PULL  down  the  bough,  Bob  !     Is  n't  this  fun  ? 
Now  give  it  a  shake,  and  —  there  goes  one  ! 
Now  put  your  thumb  up  to  the  other,  and  see 
If  it  is  n't  as  mellow  as  mellow  can  be  ! 

I  know  by  the  stripe 

It  must  be  ripe  ! 
That 's  one  apiece  for  you  and  me. 

Green,  are  they  ?     Well,  no  matter  for  that. 
Sit  down  on  the  grass,  and  we  11  have  a  chat ; 
And  I  '11  tell  you  what  old  Parson  Bute 


56      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Said  last  Sunday  of  unripe  fruit. 

"  Life,"  says  he, 

"  Is  a  bountiful  tree, 
Heavily  laden  with  beautiful  fruit. 

"  For  the  youth  there  's  love,  just  streaked  with  red, 
And  great  joys  hanging  just  over  his  head  ; 
Happiness,  honor,  and  great  estate, 
For  those  who  patiently  work  and  wait ;  — 

Blessings,"  said  he, 
"  Of  every  degree, 
Ripening  early,  and  ripening  late. 

"  Take  them  in  season,  pluck  and  eat, 
And  the  fruit  is  wholesome,  the  fruit  is  sweet ; 
But,  O  my  friends  !  "  —     Here  he  gave  a  rap 
On  his  desk,  like  a  regular  thunder-clap, 

And  made  such  a  bang, 

Old  Deacon  Lang 
Woke  up  out  of  his  Sunday  nap. 

Green  fruit,  he  said,  God  would  not  bless ; 
But  half  life's  sorrow  and  bitterness, 
Half  the  evil  and  ache  and  crime, 
Came  from  tasting  before  their  time 

The  fruits  Heaven  sent. 

Then  on  he  went 
To  his  Fourthly  and  Fifthly :  —  was  n't  it  prime  ? 

But,  I  say,  Bob !  we  fellows  don't  care 
So  much  for  a  mouthful  of  apple  or  pear ; 
But  what  we  like  is  the  fun  of  the  thing, 
When  the  fresh  winds  blow,  and  the  hang-birds  bring 
Home  grubs,  and  sing 
To  their  young  ones,  a-swing 
In  their  basket-nest,  tied  up  by  its  string. 

I  like  apples  in  various  ways  : 

They  're  first-rate  roasted  before  the  blaze 

Of  a  winter  fire  ;  and,  O  my  eyes  ! 


CORN  HARVEST  57 


Are  n't  they  nice,  though,  made  into  pies  ? 

I  scarce  ever  saw 

One,  cooked  or  raw, 
That  was  n't  good  for  a  boy  of  my  size ! 

But  shake  your  fruit  from  the  orchard  tree, 
And  the  tune  of  the  brook,  and  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
And  the  chipmonks  chippering  every  minute, 
And  the  clear  sweet  note  of  the  gay  little  linnet, 

And  the  grass  and  the  flowers, 

And  the  long  summer  hours, 
And  the  flavor  of  sun  and  breeze,  are  in  it. 

But  this  is  a  hard  one !     Why  did  n't  we 
Leave  them  another  week  on  the  tree  ? 
Is  yours  as  bitter  ?     Give  us  a  bite  ! 
The  pulp  is  tough,  and  the  seeds  are  white, 

And  the  taste  of  it  puckers 

My  mouth  like  a  sucker's ! 
I  vow,  I  believe  the  old  parson  was  right ! 


CORN  HARVEST 

THE  fields  are  filled  with  a  smoky  haze* 

The  golden  spears 

Of  the  ripening  ears 

Peep  from  the  crested  and  pennoned  maize. 
All  down  the  rustling  rows  are  rolled 
The  portly  pumpkins,  green  and  gold. 

Altogether 

'T  is  very  fine  weather, 
Just  as  the  almanac  foretold. 

In  early  summer  the  brigand  crow 

Made  ruthless  raids 

On  the  sprouting  blades  ; 

The  weeds  fought  long  with  the  farmer's  hoe  ; 
And  the  raccoons  and  squirrels  have  had  their  share 
Of  all  but  the  good  man's  toil  and  care ;  — 


58      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  shy  field-mouse 
Has  filled  her  house, 
And  the  blackbirds  are  flocking  from  no  one  knows  where. 

But  now  his  time  has  come  :  hurrah ! 

To  the  field,  boys  !  to-day 

Our  work  will  be  play. 

Let  the  blackbirds  scream,  and  the  mad  crows  caw, 
And  the  squirrels  scold  on  the  wild-cherry  limb,  — 
We  '11  take  from  the  robbers  that  took  from  him ! 

Come  along,  one  and  all,  boys ! 

Big  boys  and  small  boys, 
Long-armed  Amos,  and  Joel,  and  Jim ! 

Bring  sickles  to  reap,  or  blades  to  strike. 

Before  they  have  lost 

In  sun  and  frost 

The  nourishing  juices  the  cattle  like, 
Sucker  and  stalk  must  be  cut  from  the  hill ; 
Surround  them,  and  bend  them,  then  hit  with  a  will ! 

Left  standing  too  long, 

They  grow  woody  and  strong ; 
The  corn  in  the  stook  will  ripen  still. 

Carry  your  stroke,  lads,  close  to  the  ground. 

Set  the  stalks  upright, 

And  pack  them  tight 

In  pyramids  shapely  and  stately  and  round. 
Give  the  old  lady's  skirts  a  genteel  spread ; 
Slope  well  the  shoulders,  so  as  to  shed 

The  autumn  rain 

From  the  unhusked  grain, 
Then  twist  a  wisp  for  the  queer  little  head. 

There  she  is,  waiting  to  be  embraced  ! 

Reach  round  her  who  can  ? 

'T  will  take  a  man 

And  a  boy,  at  least,  to  clasp  her  waist ! 
Was  ever  a  hug  like  that  ?  Now  draw 
Tightly  the  girdle  of  good  oat-straw  ! 


THE   LITTLE   THEATRE  59 

With  the  plumpest  waist 
That  ever  was  laced, 
Goes  the  narrowest  nightcap  ever  you  saw. 

We  bind  the  corn,  and  leave  it  snug, 

Or  rest  in  the  shade 

Of  the  shocks  we  have  made, 
To  eat  our  luncheon,  and  drink  from  the  jug. 
The  children  come  bringing  the  bands,  or  play 
Hide-and-go-seek  in  the  corn  all  day, 

And  now  and  then  race 

With  a  chipmonk,  or  chase 
A  scared  little  field-mouse  scampering  away. 

All  day  we  cut  and  bind  ;  till  at  night,  — 

Where  a  field  of  corn  in 

The  misty  morning 

Waved,  in  the  level  September  light,  — 
All  over  the  shadowy  stubble-land, 
The  stocks,  like  Indian  wigwams,  stand. 

Compact  and  secure, 

There  leave  them  to  cure, 
Till  the  merry  husking-time  is  at  hand. 

Then  the  fodder  will  be  to  stack  or  to  house, 

And  the  ears  to  husk. 

But  now  the  dusk 

Falls  soft  as  the  shadows  of  cool  pine-boughs  ; 
Our  good  day's  work  is  done ;  the  night 
Brings  wholesome  fatigue  and  appetite ; 

Up  comes  the  balloon 

Of  the  huge  red  moon, 
And  home  we  go,  singing  gay  songs  by  its  light. 


THE   LITTLE   THEATRE 

I  KNOW  a  little  theatre 

Scarce  bigger  than  a  nut. 
Finer  than  pearl  its  portals  are, 


60      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Quick  as  the  twinkling  of  a  star 
They  open  and  they  shut. 

A  fairy  palace  beams  within  : 

So  wonderful  it  is, 

No  words  can  tell  you  of  its  worth,  — 
No  architect  in  all  the  earth 

Could  build  a  house  like  this. 

A  beautiful  rose  window  lets 

A  ray  into  the  hall ; 

To  shade  the  scene  from  too  much  light, 
A  tiny  curtain  hangs  in  sight, 

Within  the  crystal  wall. 

And  0  the  wonders  there  beside ! 

The  curious  furniture, 
The  stage,  with  all  its  small  machinery, 
Pulley  and  cord  and  shifting  scenery, 

In  marvellous  miniature ! 

A  little,  busy,  moving  world, 

It  mimics  space  and  time, 
The  marriage-feast,  the  funeral, 
Old  men  and  little  children,  all 

In  perfect  pantomime. 

There  pours  the  foaming  cataract, 
There  speeds  the  train  of  cars ; 
Day  comes  with  all  its  pageantry 
Of  cloud  and  mountain,  sky  and  sea, 
The  night,  with  all  its  stars. 

Ships  sail  upon  that  mimic  sea  ; 

And  smallest  things  that  fly, 
The  humming-bird,  the  sunlit  mote 
Upon  its  golden  wings  afloat, 

Are  mirrored  in  that  sky. 

Quick  as  the  twinkling  of  the  doors, 
The  scenery  forms  or  fades  ; 


THE  CHARCOALMAN  61 

And  aU  the  fairy  folk  that  dwell 
Within  the  arched  and  windowed  shell 
Are  momentary  shades. 

Who  has  this  wonder  holds  it  dear 

As  his  own  life  and  limb  ; 
Who  lacks  it,  not  the  rarest  gem 
That  ever  flashed  in  diadem 

Can  purchase  it  for  him. 

Ah,  then,  dear  picture-loving  child, 

How  doubly  blessed  art  thou  ! 
Since  thine  the  happy  fortune  is 
To  have  two  little  worlds  like  this 

In  thy  possession  now,  — 

Each  furnished  with  soft  folding-doors, 

A  curtain,  and  a  stage  ! 
And  now  a  laughing  sprite  transfers 
Into  those  little  theatres 

The  letters  of  this  page. 


THE   CHARCOALMAN 

THOUGH  rudely  blows  the  wintry  blast, 
And  sifting  snows  fall  white  and  fast, 
Mark  Haley  drives  along  the  street, 
Perched  high  upon  his  wagon  seat ; 
His  sombre  face  the  storm  defies, 
And  thus  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries, 

"  Charco'  !  charco' !  " 
While  echo  faint  and  far  replies, 

"  Hark,  O  !  hark,  O  !  " 

«  Charco' !  "  —  "  Hark,  O  !  "  —  Such  cheery  sounds 
Attend  him  on  his  daily  rounds. 

The  dust  begrimes  his  ancient  hat ; 
His  coat  is  darker  far  than  that ; 
'T  is  odd  to  see  his  sooty  form 
All  speckled  with  the  feathery  storm  ; 


62      THE  VAGABONDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Yet  in  his  honest  bosom  lies 

Nor  spot  nor  speck,  though  still  he  cries, 

"Charco'!  charco' !  " 
While  many  a  roguish  lad  replies, 

"  Ark,  ho !  ark,  ho !  " 

"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Ark,  ho !  "  —  Such  various  sounds 
Announce  Mark  Haley's  morning  rounds. 

Thus  all  the  cold  and  wintry  day 
He  labors  much  for  little  pay ; 
Yet  feels  no  less  of  happiness 
Than  many  a  richer  man,  I  guess, 
When  through  the  shades  of  eve  he  spies 
The  light  of  his  own  home,  and  cries, 

"  Charco' !  charco' !  " 
And  Martha  from  the  door  replies, 

"  Mark,  ho !  Mark,  ho  !  " 

"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Mark,  ho  !  "  —  Such  joy  abounds 
When  he  has  closed  his  daily  rounds  ! 

The  hearth  is  warm,  the  fire  is  bright ; 

And  while  his  hand,  washed  clean  and  white, 

Holds  Martha's  tender  hand  once  more, 

His  glowing  face  bends  fondly  o'er 

The  crib  wherein  his  darling  lies, 

And  in  a  coaxing  tone  he  cries, 

"  Charco' !  charco' !  " 
And  baby  with  a  laugh  replies, 

"  Ah,  go !  ah,  go !  " 

"  Charco' !  "  —  "  Ah,  go  !  "  —  while  at  the  sounds 
The  mother's  heart  with  gladness  bounds. 


BOOK  II 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Under  the  wintry  skies, 

All  pallid  and  still  as  the  moon, 
The  cold  earth  slumbering  lies, 

Close  wound  in  her  white  cocoon. 
In  her  shrouded  and  dreamless  rest 

She  awaits  the  coming  of  Spring : 
And  the  soul  of  song  in  my  breast 

Is  dumb,  —  /  cannot  sing. 

But  soon  at  the  touch,  at  the  glance 

That  thrills  the  bound  spirit  beneath, 
She  will  wake,  she  will  rouse  from  her  trance, 

She  will  burst  from  her  chrysalis  sheath, — 
All  palpitating  in  sheen 

Of  gleaming  rimple  and  fold, 
Fresh  robed  in  sapphire  and  green, 

Full  winged  with  purple  and  gold  ! 

When  the  world,  reawakened  from  death, 

Is  wavering,  throbbing  in  light, 
And  panting  with  perfumed  breath, 

In  a  heaven  of  sound  and  of  sight,  — 
0,  then,  with  all  jubilant  things, 

Will  my  soul,  that  has  slumbered  so  long, 
Awake  in  the  glory  of  wings, 

Arise  with  the  rapture  of  song  ? 


THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER 

POEMS 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY 

FRIEND,  have  a  pipe,  and  a  seat  on  the  log  here  under  the  pine-tree. 
Here  in  the  cool  of  the  day  we  '11  smoke,  and  I  '11  tell  you  the  story. 

First,  —  do  you  notice  the  girl  ?  the  slim  one  helping  her  mother,  — 
Tough  little  tow-head,  spry  as  a  catamount,  freckled  as  birch-bark ! 
Nannie  her  name  is ;  —  it  happened  the  summer  when  she  was  a  baby. 

Tunes  were  hard  in  the  States.  We  lived  on  the  farm  with  the  old 
folks: 

There  all  our  dear  little  tots  had  been  born,  and  their  mother  before 
them. 

But  the  old  hive  would  n't  grow  with  the  fresh  young  life  that  was  buz 
zing 

In  and  out  of  its  doors ;  and,  after  much  tribulation,  — 

Many  a  sleepless  night  I  talked  it  over  with  Molly,  — 

We  had  resolved  to  push  out,  and  find  a  new  home  on  the  prairies. 

Well,  it  was  settled  at  last ;  and,  packing  our  pots  and  our  kettles, 
Clothing  and  bedding,  and  bags  of  Indian  meal  and  potatoes, 
Hen-coop,  tools,  —  the  few  indispensable  things  to  a  poor  man,  — 
Into  a  regular  broad-beamed  ark-on-wheels  of  a  wagon, 
Canvas-covered  and  drawn  by  two  yoke  of  oxen,  we  started,  — 
Crowing  cockerel,  dog  and  cat,  and  chickens,  and  children. 

Father  and  mother  and  grandmother  stood  and  watched  from  the  door- 
yard,  — 
Two  generations  that  stayed  saw  two  generations  departing. 

Molly  just  smothered  her  babies,  and  sobbed,  and  hardly  looked  back 
once,  — 


66      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Woman  all  over !  but  I  (though  I  broke  down  trying  to  cheer  her) 
Turned  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  gave  a  good  stare  at  the  old  house, 
Well-sweep,  orchard,  barn,  the  smoke  from  the  chimney,  and  still  one 
Handkerchief  feebly  fluttering,  with  the  great  sunrise  behind  all. 
That  is  the  picture  I  saw,  and  see  again  at  this  minute, 
Plain  as  if  this  was  the  hill,  and  down  by  the  creek  there  the  homestead. 
Then  it  dropped  into  the  past,  with  the  life  we  had  lived,  and  a  new 

world 

Opened  before  us.    I  tell  you,  't  was  hard  on  the  woman  !    But,  stranger, 
Look  at  her  now,  with  her  grown  and  half-grown  daughters  about  her, 
Smart  as  the  best  of  them,  setting  the  table  and  getting  our  supper, 
Hopeful  and  resolute,  light  of  heart  and  of  hand,  —  and,  believe  me, 
That 's  just  the  way  she  has  been  ever  since  —  after  having  her  cry  out 
Over  her  young  ones  that  morning  —  she  turned  a  face  like  the  sunrise 
Westward  ;  never  a  tear  from  that  time  nor  a  word  of  repining ! 

Novelty  tickles  the  young ;  and  the  children,  seeing  the  world  move 
Slowly  and  leisurely  past,  through  the  rolled-up  sides  of  the  canvas, 
Shouted  and  laughed,  and  thought  there  was  nothing  but  fun  in  a  journey. 
Tired  of  that,  they  walked,  or  romped  with  the  dog  by  the  roadside, 
Racing,  gathering  flowers,  and  picking  and  stringing  the  berries ; 
Tired  of  that,  sometimes  they  rode  on  the  backs  of  the  oxen ; 
Tired  of  everything  else,  they  fell  asleep  in  the  wagon, 
Spite  of  the  jolts  :  —  what  would  n't  we  give  to  sleep  as  a  child  sleeps  ? 
Then  they  had  something  to  do,  when  we  camped  at  noon  or  at  nightfall, 
Gathering  sticks  for  the  fire,  while  I  looked  after  the  oxen. 

Day  after  day  we  continued  our  journey,  and  night  after  night  slept 
Under  our  canvas,  or  lay  on  the  ground  rolled  up  in  our  blankets  ; 
Leaving  the  cities  behind  us  and  pushing  on  into  the  backwoods, 
Passing  the  scattered  settlements,  fording  the  streams  :  then  the  timber 
Dwindled  and  disappeared  ;  and  on  the  great  prairies  the  sun  rose 
Over  the  stern  of  our  wagon  and  set  on  the  horns  of  the  oxen, 
Morning  and  night ;  then  forests  once  more ;  and  the  trail  that  we  fol 
lowed 

Brought  us  into  these  woods.     We  intended  to  go  on  and  settle 
Over  on  Big  Buck  Branch,  where  one  of  our  neighbors,  John  Osmond, 
Going  before  us,  had  fenced  his  claim  and  rigged  up  a  sawmill. 
Here  we  encamped  at  night,  and  here  what  Molly  will  call  God's 
Hand  interfered  with  our  plans  in  the  way  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  67 

After  a  sultry  and  sweltering  day  in  September,  the  night  came 
Breathless  and  close.     We  had  halted  here  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
Choosing  our  camping-ground  where  fuel  and  water  were  plenty ; 
Woods,  great  woods  all  about  us,  only  on  one  side  the  creek  there 
Flowed  through  the  grassy  bottom  much  as  you  see  it  at  present. 
I  had  unyoked  and  watered  the  poor  lolling  cattle,  and  left  them 
Deep  in  the  wild  grass,  tethered,  feeding  and  fighting  mosquitoes. 
Then  in  the  woods  rang  the  sound  of  an  axe,  and  I  was  the  chopper, 
Slashing  away  at  the  tops  of  a  whitewood  fallen  in  the  forest, 
Throwing  off  sticks  and  chips  which  the  two  boys  caught  up  and  ran  with. 
Molly,  intent  on  her  housekeeping,  minding  the  baby,  arranging 
Everything  for  our  comfort,  was  in  and  out  of  the  wagon ; 
Robbie  already  had  run  with  a  pail  and  brought  water  to  cook  with ; 
Then  in  the  darkening  woods  shot  up  the  blaze  of  our  camp-fire, 
Home-like  and  cheery ;  and  soon  the  savory  smell  of  our  cooking 
Made  us  deliciously  hungry,  —  steaming  coffee  and  stewing 
Prairie-chickens  ;  I  shot  them  that  afternoon  from  our  wagon. 

After  supper  the  little  ones  said  their  prayers  to  their  mother, 
Kneeling  under  the  great  gaunt  trees,  in  the  gleam  of  the  firelight. 
Molly  then  (she  is  one  of  the  pious  sort,  did  I  tell  you  ?) 
Prayed  for  us  all,  —  a  short  prayer  that  we  might  be  kept  until  morning. 
Little  the  poor  girl  knew  where  the  morning  would  find  us  !     It  makes 

me  — 

Well,  yes,  soft  is  the  word,  when  I  think  of  that  prayer  and  what  fol 
lowed. 

Here  's  the  identical  spot !     Here  (fill  your  pipe  again,  stranger), 

After  preparing  our  bed,  —  that  is,  just  spreading  our  blankets 

On  the  dry  ground,  —  we  stood,  the  mother  and  I,  for  a  long  while 

Hand  in  hand,  that  night,  and  looked  at  our  six  little  shavers, 

All  asleep  in  their  nests,  either  in  or  under  the  wagon,  — 

Robbie,  and  Johnny,  and  Jane,  and  Tommy,  and  Bess,  and  the  baby,  — 

None  of  your  puny  sort,  —  cheeks  brown  and  handsome  as  russets  ;  — 

Here  in  the  great,  still  woods  we  watched  them,  with  curious  feelings, 

Asking  ourselves  again  and  again  if  we  had  done  wisely 

Making  this  journey,  and  was  n't  it  all  a  foolhardy  adventure  ? 

Each   well   enough   had   divined  what  the   other  was   thinking :  then 

Molly  — 
"  God  will  take  care  of  them  and  of  us,"  says  she,  "  if  we  trust  him." 


68      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER   POEMS 

'T  was  n't  for  me  to  dispute  her  ;  but  somehow  I  have  a  notion, 
Praying  our  best  is  doing  our  best  for  ourselves  and  each  other ; 
Trust  in  God  is  believing  that,  after  we  have  done  our  part, 
He  will  look  out  for  the  rest ;  anyhow,  it  is  useless  to  worry, 
Whether  he  does  or  he  does  n't ;  and  so  I  reasoned  and  acted. 
Though,  after  all  has  been  said,  there  is  certainly  something  or  other, 
Call  it  the  finger  of  God,  Fate,  Providence,  what  you  've  a  mind  to,  — 
Something  that  governs  the  cards  in  this  game  of  life  we  are  playing, 
Felt  oftentimes  if  not  seen,  —  as  it  were,  a  Presence  behind  us 
Planning  and  prompting  our  play,  —  that  's  how  I  look  at  it,  stranger ; 
After  what  happened  that  night  I  'm  not  the  man  to  deny  it. 

I  had  been  maybe  three  hours  asleep,  when  the  crow  of  our  cooped-up 

Rooster,  along  about  midnight,  awoke  me  ;  and  well  I  remember 

What  a  strange  night  it  was,  —  how  quiet  and  ghostly  and  lonesome ! 

Dark  as  Egypt  all  round  our  little  travelling  household, 

In  the  small,  shadowy  space  half  lit  by  our  flickering  night-fire. 

Not  a  leaf  rustled ;  no  breath,  no  sound,  except  the  incessant, 

Teasing  noise  of  the  vixenish  katydids  contradicting. 

Then  there  was  sudden  commotion :  the  shadowy  branches  above  us 

Swayed  and  clashed,  and  the  woods  seemed  to  reel   and   rock  for  a 

moment. 

Then  it  passed  off  in  a  roar  like  the  sea,  and  again  there  was  silence ; 
Even  the  katydids  had  desisted  from  scolding  to  listen. 
Nature  just  seemed  to  be  holding  her  breath  and  waiting  for  something. 

"  Can't  you  sleep,  Thomas  ?  "  says  Molly.     "  Are  you  awake,  too  ?  "  I 

said.     "Yes,  dear. 

I  have  not  slept  for  an  hour,  my  mind  is  so  full  of  forebodings. 
What  can  it  mean  ?  for  I  feel  there  is  something  dreadful  impending ! 
Twice  to-night  I  have  dreamed  that  a  limb  from  one  of  the  trees  fell 
Right  where  we  are !     Each  time  I  awoke  with  a  scream,  —  did  you 

hear  me  ?  — 

Just  as  't  was  falling  on  you.     Sleep  again  I  cannot  and  dare  not, 
For  if  I  do  I  am  sure  I  shall  dream  the  same  dream  for  a  third  time. 
Hark  ! "  she  exclaimed ;  "  what  is  that  ?  " 

A  singular  noise  in  the  southwest ; 

Not  like  the  sound  we  had  heard,  when  the  wind  died  away  in  the  dis 
tance,  — 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  69 

Sharper  and  stronger  than  that ;  and,  instead  of  dying,  increasing, 
Thundering  onward,  —  a  terrible  rushing  and  howling  and  crashing  ; 
Louder  and  louder,  as  if  all  the  trees  in  the  forest  were  falling ; 
Nearer  and  nearer,  a  deafening,  deluging  roar !     Then  I  started ; 
"  Molly  !  "  I  shrieked,  "  the  tornado  !  "  and  made  a  dash  at  the  children, 
Snatching  them  out  of  their  beds,  all  dazed  and  frightened  and  stupid, 
Half  in  the  dark,  in  the  awfullest  din  and  confusion. 

Poor  Molly 
Did  n't  know  which  way  to  turn,  but  flung  herself  on  them,  to  shield 

them. 
"  Run  !  "  I  yelled ;  "  run !  —  to  the  creek !  "  —  In  a  moment  the  crash 

would  be  on  us. 

Catching  my  arms  full,  —  one  by  the  wrist,  —  the  mother  beside  me 
Bearing  her  part,  —  Heaven  only  knows  how,  we  carried,  we  dragged 

them 

Down  the  dark  slope,  in  the  roar  of  a  hundred  Niagaras  plunging, 
Blackness  ahead,  and  the  big  trees  screeching  and  breaking  and  clash 
ing 

Close  at  our  heels,  all  about  us,  —  the  tops  of  one  whipped  us  in  falling ! 
Then  the  wind  took  us,  and  — 

Well,  the  next  minute  I  found  myself  lying 

Down  in  the  grass  there,  clinging,  and  holding  on  to  the  small  fry, 
In  a  mad  storm  of  leaves  and  broken  branches  and  hailstones,  — 
Howling  darkness,  and  jaws  of  lightning  that  showed  us  the  world  all 
Rushing  and  streaming  one  way.     I  can't  say  how  long  it  lasted, 
Maybe  five  minutes,  not  more ;  then  all  of  a  sudden  the  lull  came. 

Counting  heads,  I  found  that  three  of  the  children  were  with  me, 
Cuddled  down  close ;  but  where  all  the  while  were  the  rest,  and  their 

mother  ? 

Never  a  one  to  be  seen,  as  I  looked  by  the  quivering  flashes,  — 
Only  the  grass  blown  flat,  ironed  down,  all  along  by  the  creek  shore. 
Soon  as  the  tempest  would  let  me,  I  rose  to  my  feet,  braced  against  it, 
Shouted,  and  listened ;  when  out  of  the  dire  confusion  of  noises 
Came  a  long,  dismal  bellow  from  one  of  my  poor  frightened  oxen. 
Then  a  child  cried  near  by.   Then  her  voice :  "  Are  you  all  safe  there  ?  " 
"  Yes.     Where  are  you  ?  "  I  cried.     "  Here !  under  the  bank,  by  the 

water, 


70      THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Tommy   and  Jennie  —  not   one    of    us   hurt  —  just  where   the   wind 
dropped  us. 

O,  what  a  merciful  providence  !     Did  you  say  —  did  you  say  all  safe  ? 

Baby  and  all  ?  " 

"  The  baby !  "  I  said.     "  Have  n't  you  got  the  baby  ?  " 

That  brought  her  up  from  the  creek  with  a  shriek  —  shall  I  ever  for 
get  it  ? 

That,  or  the  look  she  gave,  as  she  rushed  out  before  me  ?  her  long  black 

Hair  flying  wild  in  the  wind,  face  white,  in  a  sheet  of  white  lightning ! 

"  O,  my  baby  !  "  she  said,  "  you  had  it,  —  I  felt  its  bed  empty  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  —  I  took  it,  I  gave  it  to  some  one  —  to  Jennie  ! 

Then  I  put  both  in  your  arms." 

" 0  father !  "  says  Jennie,  "you  gave  me 

Something  wrapped  up  in  a  blanket.     I  hugged  it  tight,  but  it  squirmed 
so  — 

I  was  so  frightened  —  it  scratched  and  jumped  from  my  arms  —  and, 
O  father ! 

'T  was  n't  the  baby,  I  know !  "     And  that  was  the  way  of  it :  I  had 

Thrust  my  hand  into  the  wagon,  and  caught  up  an  object  I  found  there 

Under  the  blanket.     Consider  the  horrible  uproar  and  hubbub, 

Darkness  and  fright,  and  then  maybe  you  '11  understand  how  a  man 
can 

Make  such  a  blunder ;  —  the  baby  had  rolled  from  its  place,  and  the 
blanket 

Dropped  on  the  cat,  I  suppose,  when  I  took  up  the  last  of  the  children. 

Well,  there  we  were,  and  it 's  easy  to  think  of  pleasanter  places 

One  might  prefer  to  be  in,  if  he  had  his  choice  in  the  matter  :  — 

Young  ones  shivering,  crying,  mother  almost  distracted, 

None  of  us  more  than  half  dressed,  just  the  clothes  on  which  we  had 

slept  in  ; 

Dark  as  Egypt  again,  not  even  the  lightning  to  guide  us 
Into  the  terrible  windfall  in  search  of  our  camp  and  the  baby ; 
Weather  grown  suddenly  cold,  and  five  hours  yet  until  daylight ! 

All  was  quiet  again,  very  much  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  — 
Only  occasional  flurries  of  wind  and  spatters  of  cold  rain ; 
Then  I  looked  up,  and,  behold !  the  stars  were  shining  ;  I  saw  them 
Glance  through  flying  clouds,  and  the  twisted  branches  above  me 
Where  I  was  struggling  so  madly  to  find  a  way  back  to  the  wagon. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  71 

I  for  the  twentieth  time  had  paused  to  hear  if  a  child  cried, 

Hoping  still  against  fate,  when  they  shone  out,  O  so  serenely ! 

Over  my  head,  those  stars,  looking  down  on  my  rage  and  impatience. 

Something  entered  my  soul  with  their  beams,  —  I  could  never  explain  it ; 

'T  was  n't  just  what  you  might  call  a  pious  notion  that  took  me,  — 

But  from  that  time  I  was  calm,  under  all  my  outward  excitement ; 

Calm  deep  down  in  my  heart,  and  prepared  for  whatever  might  happen. 

Still  it  was  frightful  business,  —  tearing  my  way  through  the  treetops, 
Climbing  about  the  immense  crossed  trunks  and  limbs,  till  a  glimmer 
Caught  my  eye  through  the  brush,  —  a  blinking  brand  of  our  camp-fire, 
Scattered,  but  not  quite  extinguished,  for  all  the  hail  and  the  whirlwind. 
All  this  time  I  had  kept  up  a  frequent  hallooing  to  Molly, 
Brooding  her  half-naked  young  ones,  just  outside  of  the  windfall, 
Waiting  in  terror  and  cold  to  hear  the  worst.     Only  Robbie, 
Stout  little  fellow,  was  with  me ;  wherever  I  clambered,  he  followed. 
"  Father !  "  he  cried,  "  see  the  light !  "  and  forward  we  scrambled  to 

reach  it,  — 

Scraped  together  what  sticks  and  leaves  we  could  feel  with  our  fingers. 
Everything,  though,  was  so  damp  that,  with  all  our  puffing  and  blowing, 
Never  a  blaze  would  start  (our  matches  were  left  in  the  wagon),  — 
Till,  all  at  once,  a  flash !  I  looked,  and  there  was  the  rogue,  sir, 
Tearing  his  shirt  into  strips  of  cotton  to  kindle  the  fire  with ! 
"  Mother  won't  care,"  says  he.    "  What 's  a  shirt,  if  we  only  find  baby  ?  " 

On  went  branches  and  bark.     There,  in  the  still  light,  all  around  us 
Lay  the  tremendous  tangle,  —  timber  scattered  like  jack-straws ; 
Shaggy  and  shadowy  masses  starting  out  of  the  darkness ; 
Upturned  roots,  with  their  cart-loads  of   earth,  —  all  the  work  of  a 

minute ! 

Still  no  sign  of  a  wagon ;  no  cry,  in  the  terrible  silence,  — 
Only  the  lisp  of  the  flames,  and  the  hiss  and  crackle  of  green  stuff 
Where  they  streamed  into  the  hair  of  a  giant  pine-tree,  and  lit  up 
All  that  part  of  the  windfall.     Near  by,  on  a  bough,  a  small  bird  sat, 
Dazed  :  you  might  almost  have  caught  it.     Just  then  I  perceived  some 
thing  white  gleam, 

Rushed  for  it,  tore  through  the  brush ;   and  there,  sir,  if  you  '11  be 
lieve  me, 

In  a  rough  penfold  of  trees  slung  about  in  the  carelessest  fashion, 
Safe  in  the  midst  of  'em,  only  the  tongue  smashed  up  and  the  canvas 


72      THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Damaged  a  trifle  —     Excuse  me,  I  never  could  get  through  the  story, 
Just  along  here,  without  being  a  little  mite  womanish  !  —  Well,  sir, 
There,  as  I  said,  was  the  wagon,  and  there,  as  I  live,  was  the  baby, 
Keeled  over  into  a  basket,  and  sleeping,  as  peaceful  as  could  be  ! 
That  was  the  wonder,  —  to  think  how  she  had  refused  to  be  quiet 
Many  a  night,  to  sleep  at  last  through  a  tearing  tornado  ! 
Strange,  too,  —  the  moment  I  saw  her  she  woke,  and,  as  if  she  was 

bound  to 

Make  up  for  time  she  had  lost,  set  up  such  a  musical  screeching, 
In  the  wild  woods,  as  I  guess  never  went  to  the  heart  of  a  mother 
Gladder  than  Molly.     No  need  for  Robbie  to  yell,  "  We  have  found 

her !  " 

Soon,  by  the  help  of  the  light,  I  had  brought  the  whole  tribe  through  the 
windfall. 

But,  after  all,  the  thing  did  look  mighty  bad  to  me,  stranger  ! 

There  was  our  poor  dog  killed  by  a  tree  that  had  crashed  on  our  camp- 
fire  ; 

Dinner-pot  smashed ;  likewise  the  hen-coop  beside  it  demolished  ; 

Wagon  disabled ;  and  that,  and  all  our  earthly  possessions, 

Fast  in  a  snarl  of  big  logs  that  I  never  expected  to  cut  through : 

Fifteen  miles  to  Buck  Branch,  and  not  a  hand  nearer  to  help  us ! 

Well,  I  was  blue  !     The  woman  of  course  went  into  hysterics, 
Hugging  her  baby,  at  first ;  then  came  to  me  with  her  comfort : 
"  Don't  be  down-hearted  !  "  she  said.     "  O  dear  !  do  look  at  that  hen 
coop  ! 
Pull  off  the  branches,  why  don't  you  ?  maybe  the  poor  things  are  alive 

yet." 

So  I  uncovered  the  rubbish  ;  —  three  pullets  quite  stiff ;  but  the  rooster 
Fluttered  a  little,  got  up,  looked  about  him,  and  shook  out  his  feathers, 
Saw  his  three  wives  lying  dead  at  his  feet,  his  house  all  in  ruins, 
Hopped  to  a  stump,  where  he  flapped  his  red  wings  in  the  flush  of  the 

firelight, 

Stretched  up  his  neck  and  crowed !  superb,  courageous,  defiant, 
Flinging  his  note  of  cheer  out  into  the  night,  till  the  echoes 
Crowed  in  the  distance.     The  frightened,  huddling  and  shivering  chil 
dren 

Heard  it,  laughed,  and  took  heart ;  and  I  said,  "  If  that  cockerel,  after 
All  that  has  happened  to  him,  has  pluck  enough  left  him  to  crow  with, 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  73 

What  am  I  to  despair,  with  my  wife  and  children  around  me, 
Safe,  and  with  hands  to  shape  our  future  out  of  this  chaos  ?  " 

Daylight  came,  and  showed  the  work  that  was  laid  out  before  me. 
There  was  the  windfall,  —  a  gap  in  the  woods  far  off  in  the  southwest, 
Skipping  the  creek,  then  stretching  as  far  away  in  the  northeast,  — 
Just  a  big  swath  through  the  timber,  as  if  a  giant  had  mowed  it  ! 
What  did  I  do  ?     Went  out  and  looked  up  my  cattle,  the  first  thing  ; 
Then  set  to  work  with  my  axe,  getting  poles  and  bark  for  a  cabin  ; 
Drove  to  Buck  Branch  with  a  drag,  sold  one  yoke  of  oxen,  and  brought 

back 

Things  that  we  needed  the  most ;  cut  grass  for  the  cattle,  come  winter,  — 
Settled,  in  short,  where  we  were,  because  we  could  n't  well  help  it. 

Watching  my  chance,  by  degrees  I  burned  off,  and  logged  off,  the  wind 
fall, 

Turning  it  into  a  wheat-lot  that  has  n't  its  beat  in  the  country. 
Taken  together,  the  woodland,  and  bottom,  and  prairie  beyond  there, 
Make  the  best  kind  of  a  farm.     And  soon  we  began  to  have  neighbors. 
Table  and  chairs  took  the  place  of  blocks  and  slabs  in  our  cabin ; 
Cabin  itself  gave  way  in  a  couple  of  years  to  a  log-house  ; 
Log-house  at  last  to  a  framed  house,  —  this  is  the  article,  stranger  ; 
Not  the  most  elegant  mansion,  —  snug,  though,  and  much  at  your  ser 
vice. 
School-house  and  meeting-house  followed.     And  then  came  the  row  with 

the  redskins. 

Terrible  times  !     We  escaped,  —  and  that 's  a  strange  part  of  my  story. 
Over  on  Big  Buck  Branch,  where  we  had  intended  to  settle, 
Every  man,  woman,  and  child  —  except  our  old  neighbor,  John  Osmond, 
He  was  with  us  at  the  time  —  was  murdered,  or  driven  for  refuge 
Into  the  woods  (it  was  winter) ,  and  all  their  houses  and  barns  burnt,  — 
Grist-mill,  saw-mill,  store,  there  was  n't  a  building  left  standing. 
We  on  the  creek  took  in  the  poor  wretches,  and  often  that  winter, 
Not  for  ourselves  alone,  had  reason  to  bless  the  tornado,  — 
Or  what  Power  soever  that  with  the  twirl  of  a  finger, 
Tied  us  up  here  in  the  woods,  in  the  mighty  hard  knot  of  a  windfall. 

That  is  the  story.    Beg  pardon  !  your  pipe  is  out.    But  there  's  Nannie  — 
Baby  worth  saving,  you  think  ?  —  just  coming  to  call  us  to  supper. 


74      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

DOROTHY  IN   THE  GARRET 

IN  the  low-raftered  garret,  stooping 

Carefully  over  the  creaking  boards, 
Old  Maid  Dorothy  goes  a-groping 

Among  its  dusty  and  cobwebbed  hoards  ; 
Seeking  some  bundle  of  patches,  hid 

Far  under  the  eaves,  or  bunch  of  sage, 
Or  satchel  hung  on  its  nail,  amid 

The  heirlooms  of  a  bygone  age. 

There  is  the  ancient  family  chest, 

There  the  ancestral  cards  and  hatchel ; 
Dorothy,  sighing,  sinks  down  to  rest, 

Forgetful  of  patches,  sage,  and  satchel. 
Ghosts  of  faces  peer  from  the  gloom 

Of  the  chimney,  where,  with  swifts  and  reel, 
And  the  long-disused,  dismantled  loom, 

Stands  the  old-fashioned  spinning-wheel. 

She  sees  it  back  in  the  clean-swept  kitchen, 

A  part  of  her  girlhood's  little  world  : 
Her  mother  is  there  by  the  window,  stitching ; 

Spindle  buzzes,  and  reel  is  whirled 
With  many  a  click  :  on  her  little  stool 

She  sits,  a  child  by  the  open  door, 
Watching,  and  dabbling  her  feet  in  the  pool 

Of  sunshine  warm  on  the  gilded  floor. 

Her  sisters  are  spinning  all  day  long  : 

To  her  wakening  sense,  the  first  sweet  warning 
Of  daylight  come,  is  the  cheerful  song 

To  the  hum  of  the  wheel,  in  the  early  morning. 
Benjie,  the  gentle,  red-cheeked  boy, 

On  his  way  to  school,  peeps  in  at  the  gate ; 
In  neat,  white  pinafore,  pleased  and  coy, 

She  reaches  a  hand  to  her  bashful  mate  ; 

And  under  the  elms,  a  prattling  pair, 

Together  they  go,  through  glimmer  and  gloom  :  — 


DOROTHY  IN  THE  GARRET  75 

It  all  comes  back  to  her,  dreaming  there 

In  the  low-raftered  garret-room  ; 
The  hum  of  the  wheel,  and  the  summer  weather, 

The  heart's  first  trouble,  and  love's  beginning, 
Are  all  in  her  memory  linked  together  ; 

And  now  it  is  she  herself  that  is  spinning. 

With  the  bloom  of  youth  on  cheek  and  lip, 

Turning  the  spokes  with  the  flashing  pin, 
Twisting  the  thread  from  the  spindle-tip, 

Stretching  it  out  and  winding  it  in, 
To  and  fro,  with  a  blithesome  tread, 

Singing  she  goes,  and  her  heart  is  full, 
And  many  a  long-drawn  golden  thread 

Of  fancy  is  spun  with  the  shining  wool. 

Her  father  sits  in  his  favorite  place, 

Puffing  his  pipe  by  the  chimney-side ; 
Through  curling  clouds  his  kindly  face 

Glows  upon  her  with  love  and  pride. 
Lulled  by  the  wheel,  in  the  old  armchair 

Her  mother  is  musing,  cat  in  lap, 
With  beautiful  drooping  head,  and  hair 

Whitening  under  her  snow-white  cap. 

One  by  one,  to  the  grave,  to  the  bridal, 

They  have  followed  her  sisters  from  the  door ; 
Now  they  are  old,  and  she  is  their  idol :  — 

It  all  comes  back  on  her  heart  once  more. 
In  the  autumn  dusk  the  hearth  gleams  brightly, 

The  wheel  is  set  by  the  shadowy  wall,  — 
A  hand  at  the  latch,  —  't  is  lifted  lightly, 

And  in  walks  Benjie,  manly  and  tall. 

His  chair  is  placed  ;  the  old  man  tips 

The  pitcher,  and  brings  his  choicest  fruit ; 
Benjie  basks  in  the  blaze,  and  sips, 

And  tells  his  story,  and  joints  his  flute : 
O,  sweet  the  tunes,  the  talk,  the  laughter  ! 

They  fill  the  hour  with  a  glowing  tide  ; 


76      THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  sweeter  the  still,  deep  moments  after, 
When  she  is  alone  by  Benjie's  side. 

But  once  with  angry  words  they  part : 

O,  then  the  weary,  weary  days  ! 
Ever  with  restless,  wretched  heart, 

Plying  her  task,  she  turns  to  gaze 
Far  up  the  road ;  and  early  and  late 

She  harks  for  a  footstep  at  the  door, 
And  starts  at  the  gust  that  swings  the  gate, 

And  prays  for  Benjie,  who  comes  110  more. 

Her  fault  ?     O  Benjie !  and  could  you  steel 

Your  thoughts  toward  one  who  loved  you  so  ?  — 
Solace  she  seeks  in  the  whirling  wheel, 

In  duty  and  love  that  lighten  woe ; 
Striving  with  labor,  not  in  vain, 

To  drive  away  the  dull  day's  dreariness ; 
Blessing  the  toil  that  blunts  the  pain 

Of  a  deeper  grief  in  the  body's  weariness. 

Proud,  and  petted,  and  spoiled  was  she : 

A  word,  and  all  her  life  is  changed ! 
His  wavering  love  too  easily 

In  the  great,  gay  city  grows  estranged. 
One  year  :  she  sits  in  the  old  church  pew ; 

A  rustle,  a  murmur,  —  O  Dorothy !  hide 
Your  face  and  shut  from  your  soul  the  view ! 

'T  is  Benjie  leading  a  white-veiled  bride ! 

Now  father  and  mother  have  long  been  dead, 

And  the  bride  sleeps  under  a  churchyard  stone, 
And  a  bent  old  man  with  grizzled  head 

Walks  up  the  long,  dim  aisle  alone. 
Years  blur  to  a  mist ;  and  Dorothy 

Sits  doubting  betwixt  the  ghost  she  seems 
And  the  phantom  of  youth,  more  real  than  she, 

That  meets  her  there  in  that  haunt  of  dreams. 

Bright  young  Dorothy,  idolized  daughter, 
Sought  by  many  a  youthful  adorer, 


FARMER  JOHN  77 


Life,  like  a  new-risen  dawn  on  the  water, 
Shining,  an  endless  vista,  before  her ! 

Old  Maid  Dorothy,  wrinkled  and  gray, 
Groping  under  the  farm-house  eaves,  — 

And  life  is  a  brief  November  day 

That  sets  on  a  world  of  withered  leaves ! 


FARMER  JOHN 

HOME  from  his  journey  Farmer  John 

Arrived  this  morning,  safe  and  sound. 
His  black  coat  off,  and  his  old  clothes  on, 
"  Now  I  'm  myself !  "  says  Farmer  John ; 

And  he  thinks,  "  I  '11  look  around." 
Up  leaps  the  dog  :  "  Get  down,  you  pup ! 
Are  you  so  glad  you  would  eat  me  up  ?  " 
The  old  cow  lows  at  the  gate,  to  greet  him ; 
The  horses  prick  up  their  ears,  to  meet  him : 
"Well,  well,  old  Bay! 

Ha,  ha,  old  Gray ! 
Do  you  get  good  feed  when  I  am  away  ? 

"  You  have  n't  a  rib  !  "  says  Farmer  John ; 

"  The  cattle  are  looking  round  and  sleek ; 
The  colt  is  going  to  be  a  roan, 
And  a  beauty  too :  how  he  has  grown  ! 

We  '11  wean  the  calf  next  week." 
Says  Farmer  John,  "  When  I  've  been  off, 
To  call  you  again  about  the  trough, 
And  watch  you,  and  pet  you,  while  you  drink, 
Is  a  greater  comfort  than  you  can  think !  " 
And  he  pats  old  Bay, 
And  he  slaps  old  Gray ;  — 
"  Ah,  this  is  the  comfort  of  going  away ! 

"  For,  after  all,"  says  Farmer  John, 

"  The  best  of  a  journey  is  getting  home. 
I  Ve  seen  great  sights ;  but  would  I  give 
This  spot,  and  the  peaceful  life  I  live, 
For  all  their  Paris  and  Rome  ? 


78      THE   EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

These  hills  for  the  city's  stifled  air, 

And  big  hotels  all  bustle  and  glare, 

Land  all  houses,  and  roads  all  stones, 

That  deafen  your  ears  and  batter  your  bones  ? 

Would  you,  old  Bay  ? 

Would  you,  old  Gray  ? 
That 's  what  one  gets  by  going  away ! 

"  There  Money  is  king,"  says  Farmer  John ; 

"  And  Fashion  is  queen ;  and  it 's  mighty  queer 
To  see  how  sometimes,  while  the  man 
Is  raking  and  scraping  all  he  can, 

The  wife  spends,  every  year, 
Enough,  you  would  think,  for  a  score  of  wives, 
To  keep  them  in  luxury  all  their  lives ! 
The  town  is  a  perfect  Babylon 
To  a  quiet  chap,"  says  Farmer  John. 
"  You  see,  old  Bay,  — 

You  see,  old  Gray,  — 
I  'm  wiser  than  when  I  went  away. 

"  I  've  found  out  this,"  says  Farmer  John,  — 
"  That  happiness  is  not  bought  and  sold, 
And  clutched  in  a  life  of  waste  and  hurry, 
In  nights  of  pleasure  and  days  of  worry ; 

And  wealth  is  n't  all  in  gold, 
Mortgage  and  stocks  and  ten  per  cent,  — 
But  in  simple  ways,  and  sweet  content, 
Few  wants,  pure  hopes,  and  noble  ends, 
Some  land  to  till,  and  a  few  good  friends, 
Like  you,  old  Bay, 
And  you,  old  Gray ! 
That 's  what  I  've  learned  by  going  away." 

And  a  happy  man  is  Farmer  John,  — 

O,  a  rich  and  happy  man  is  he ! 
He  sees  the  peas  and  pumpkins  growing, 
The  corn  in  tassel,  the  buckwheat  blowing, 

And  fruit  on  vine  and  tree ; 
The  large,  kind  oxen  look  their  thanks 
As  he  rubs  their  foreheads  and  strokes  their  flanks ; 


OLD  SIMON   DOLE  79 


The  doves  light  round  him,  and  strut  and  coo. 
Says  Farmer  John,  "  I  '11  take  you  too,  — 

And  you,  old  Bay, 

And  you,  old  Gray, 
Next  time  I  travel  so  far  away !  " 


OLD  SIMON  DOLE 

So,  Mirny,  it 's  me  an'  you  agin,  is  it  ? 

Strange,  atter  so  long  a  while,  to  think 
I  sh'd  be  comin'  to  make  ye  a  visit, 

An'  set  tipped  back  here  agin  the  sink, 
An'  tock  to  ye  jes'  's  I  did,  ye  know,  — 
Wai,  nigh  on  to  forty  year  ago ! 

Le'  me  see !     Married  in  'twenty-six ; 

'T  wuz  a  new  house  then,  an'  ye  moved  right  in. 
Don't  look  quite  so  new  to-day  !  It 's  slick  's 

It  ever  wuz,  though,  —  neat  as  a  pin ! 
I  oilers  telled  Jerome,  when  he  got 
Our  Mirny,  he  picked  the  best  o'  the  lot. 

Ye  axed  my  advice,  remember :  "  He  ain't 

The  smartis'  feller  in  oil  creation," 
Says  I,  "  ner  you  wun't  find  him  a  saint ; 

Well  off,  though,  an'  that 's  a  consideration. 
'F  he  gits  the  right  kin'  of  a  wife,  he  '11  let  her 
Manage.  I  guess  ye  can't  do  no  better," 

Says  I.     An'  ye  found  it  jes'  'bout  so. 

Ye  begun  'ith  him  right,  I  oilers  said. 
'F  a  woman  expec's  to  hoe  her  row 

With  a  man,  —  keepin'  mebby  a  leetle  ahead,  — 
She  mus'  start  in  season  :  slim  chance  she  '11  stan', 
Once  give  him  fairly  the  upper  han' ! 

Then  I  got  married.     Ah,  wal,  poor  Mary  ! 

She  made  a  good  wife,  though  she  wa'n't  re'l  strong. 
You  never  looked  into  a  han'somer  dairy  ! 

An'  she  wuz  as  pleasant 's  the  day  wuz  long, 


80      THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

With  jes'  the  pertyis'  kin'  of  a  v'ice. 
I  never  had  reason  to  rue  my  ch'ice. 

I  got  a  wife  an'  a  farm  to  boot ; 

Ye  could  n't  ketch  me  a  nappin'  there  ! 
Thinks  I,  "  Now,  s'posin'  the  wife  don't  soot  ? 

The  farm  '11  be  suthin'  to  make  that  square  ; 
No  resk  'bout  that !     An'  where  's  the  harm, 
If  the  wife  turns  out  as  good  as  the  farm  ?  " 

She  'd  nat'ral  larnin',  —  bright 's  a  dollar ! 

It  runs  in  the  Grimeses,  —  she  wuz  clear  Grimes. 
I  'm  'mos'  sorry  I  did  n't  f  oiler 

Her  counsels  more  'n  I  did,  sometimes. 
The'  wa'n't  nothin'  but  what  she  understood ; 
An'  her  jedgment  in  matters  wuz  oilers  good. 

It  might  'a'  be'n  well  if  I  had,  —  do'no'. 

'T  wa'n't  never  my  way  to  be  led.     I  hate 
A  woman  'at  wears  the  breeches  ;  an'  so, 

Mebby,  by  tryin'  to  stan'  too  straight, 
When  she  'd  have  bent  me  a  little,  I  fell 
Over  back  now  an'  then,  —  do'no' ;  can't  tell. 

She  'd  high  idees !     She  claimed  we  'd  otter 

Give  Simon  a  college  edecation ; 
Teased  me  to  send  our  secon'  dotter 

(She  knowed  't  would  cos'  like  all  creation  !) 
To  boardin'-school,  an'  have  a  pyaner 
An'  music-master  for  Abby  an'  Hanner. 

I  thot  that  notion  might  cool  a  spell. 

/  never  'd  sot  foot  inside  a  college, 
An'  /  'd  rubbed  through  the  world  perty  well. 

As  fer  the  gals,  a  trifle  o'  knowledge, 
Enough  fer  to  teach,  might  help  'em  some  ; 
But  that  they  could  have  'thout  goin'  f 'm  hum. 

"  They  need  n't  poke  off  to  the  'cademy, 
To  fin'  good  husban's,  I  'm  sure,"  says  I. 


OLD  SIMON  DOLE  81 


"You  never  done  that,  an'  you  foun'  me. 

They  '11  make  good  wives,  too,  I  guess,  if  they  try, 
'Thout  French  an'  drarrin' ;  it  don't  take  these 
Fer  to  mix  a  pud'n'  an'  set  a  cheese. 

"  I  mean  to  bring  up  our  Sim,"  says  I, 

"  To  go  to  meet'n'  an'  Sunday-school, 
An'  do  's  he  'd  be  done  by,  perty  nigh, 

An'  be  a  good  farmer,  an'  nob'dy's  fool, 
An'  give  him  schoolin'  enough,  so  's  he 
Can  take  good  care  of  his  proppity,  — 

"  With  some  to  take  care  on  ;  then  if  he  's  sound 
In  the  doctrine,  and  pop'lar  enough  fer  to  go 

To  the  Gin'ral  Court  when  the  time  comes  round 
(Don't  take  much  schoolin'  fer  that,  ye  know), 

I  sh'll  consider,"  says  I,  "  't  I  've  done 

A  payrunt's  hull  dooty  to  a  son. 

"  But  drarrin'  an'  French  an'  pyaner-playin',  — 

That  nonsense  !  —  I  would  n't  give  a  strah 
Fer  gals  brot  up  tut !     An'  as  fer  payin'," 

Says  I,  "  bills  long  's  the  marral  lah 
'T  yer  board'n'-schools,  —  when  I  'm  sich  a  dunce, 
Jes'  put  me  under  guardeens  to  once  !  " 

That  did  n't  quite  jibe  'ith  her  idee  ; 

An'  once  she  could  n't  help  flingin'  out 
'T  the  money  it  cost  would  n't  come  f 'm  me, 

Sence  the  farm  wuz  her  'n.     But  that  wuz  about 
The  last  on  't.     Took  like  that !     I  told  her 
'T  would  make  the  ol'  house  too  hot  to  hold  her. 

Singin'  was  well  enough ;  an'  Sim 

An'  Jemimy  gin'ally  sot  in  the  choir. 
Then  'f  they  struck  up  a  Sunday  hymn, 

A  settin'  around  a  winter's  fire,  — 
Er  a  good  ol'-fashioned  week-day  song,  — 
Th'  evenin's  did  n't  seem  quite  so  long. 


82      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

But  the  sweetis'  tunes  wuz  oilers  sweeter, 
Though  I  do  say  it,  if  she  j'ined  in. 

She  wuz  jes'  the  meekis',  patientis'  creatur' ! 
I  've  said  it,  er  thot  it,  time  an'  agin. 

Do'no'  's  I  ever  spoke  it  out  loud 

To  her,  '  fear  praisin'  might  make  her  proud. 

Ye  never  did  see  sich  a  cute  contriver 
Fer  makin'  things  nice  an'  comf 'table ! 

Work  —  though  she  wa'n't  no  gre't  of  a  driver  — 
Oilers,  when  she  wuz  around,  went  well. 

Seemed  's  'ough  the'  wuz  suthin'  in  her  smile 

'At  made  the  wheels  run  as  slick  as  ile. 

Wai,  bimeby  Hanner  she  got  married ; 

An'  Simon  he  begun  to  spark  it ; 
An'  Abby  died ;  an'  Jemimy  carried 

Her  wool,  's  I  said,  to  a  dumb  poor  market ; 
Took  up  'ith  the  wheelwright's  son,  an'  went 
Out  West,  —  smart  chap,  but  had  n't  a  cent. 

I  might  'a'  gi'n  'em  a  thousan'  dollars, 

To  buy  'em  some  land ;  't  would  tickled  mother ! 

They  'lotted  on  't ;  but  then  she  wuz  oilers 
Forever  a  teasin'  f er  this  un  an'  t'  other ; 

I  'd  got  so  use'  ter  sayin'  no, 

I  forked  out  fifty,  an'  let  'em  go. 

Sim  he  done  well,  —  Square  Ebbitt's  dotter  ; 

They  gi'n  her  a  han'some  settin'-out ! 
I  fixed  'em  a  house,  an'  her  folks  bot  her 

The  biggis'  pyaner  in  town,  about. 
'T  would  do  for  her.     Sounds  kin'  o'  nice ! 
She  '11  play !     You  'd  think  her  fingers  wuz  mice ! 

Childern  oil  married  off  er  dead, 

It  seemed  some  lonesome  fer  a  spell. 

We  'uz  gitt'n'  in  years,  an'  wife  she  said 
We  'd  made  enough,  an'  I  'd  otter  sell,  — 


OLD  SIMON  DOLE  83 


Give  up  hard  work,  an'  settle  down, 
'Longside  o'  Simon,  nigher  town. 

I  hated,  wus  'n  ever  a  man  did, 

To  quit  the  farm  ;  fer  every  year 
We  wuz  gittin'  more  an'  more  forehanded,  — 

Layin'  up  reg'lar  suthin'  clear  ; 
An'  the'  's  sich  a  satisfaction  knowin' 
Yer  grass  an'  yer  bank  account  is  growin' ! 

I  may  'a'  be'n  wrong  ;  we  're  poor,  frail  creatur's  ! 

But  she  kep'  up  so  'bout  her  work,  — 
She  'd  oilers  jes'  them  delikit  featur's, 

Wuz  jes'  so  quiet,  an'  jes'  so  chirk, 
(She  never  would  fret,  though  she  never  wuz  slack  : 
I  'd  scold,  but  she  never  scolded  back),  — 

I  did  n't  once  'spect  how  low  she  wuz, 

Ner  dream  o'  what  wuz  a-goin'  to  happen, 

Till  bimeby  neighbors  begun  to  buzz  ; 

An'  says  one  to  me  :  "  Why,  ye  're  crazy,  Cap'n  ! 

She  '11  work  long  's  ever  she  drahs  breath, 

An'  she  's  jes'  workin'  herself  to  death  !  " 

Another  said,  she  wuz  pinin'  away,  — 

She  did  n't  have  s'ciety  enough,  — 
She  'd  otter  go  ridin'  every  day ! 

I  'xpect  I  answered  'em  kin'  o'  gruff ; 
Though  I  must  own  I  wuz  gin'ally  loth 
To  have  comp'ny  much,  —  it 's  a  perfick  moth. 

I  s'pose  I  wuz  wrong,  —  the  best  is  li'ble 
To  miss  it,  —  an'  yit  I  tried  to  do  right. 

I  kep'  the  sabbath,  an'  read  the  Bible, 

An'  prayed  in  the  fam'ly  marnin'  an'  night,  — 

'Thout  't  wuz  in  hayin'-time,  now  an'  then, 

When  wages  wuz  high,  an'  we  'd  hired  men. 

We  had  the  darktor  to  her  ;  but  she 
Did  n't  seem  to  have  no  settl'  disease. 


84      THE   EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  'T  ain't  'zac'ly  the  lungs,  Mis'  Dole,"  says  he. 
"  Can't  be,"  says  I,  "  the  butter  an'  cheese  ! 
An',  Darktor,"  says  I,  "  how  could  it  come 
F'm  lonesomeness  ?     /  'm  oilers  to  hum  !  " 

Oil  we  know  is,  't  wuz  a  dispensation  ! 

Heavem's  ways  ain't  our  'n  —  't  's  a  world  o'  trouble ! 
Ye  may  s'arch  f 'm  eend  to  eend  o'  the  nation, 

Fer  another  sich  evem-mated  couple  ! 
Men  tock  o'  divorce,  —  that  never  'd  be  needed, 
If  oil  drah'd  true  in  the  yoke  as  she  did. 

It  e'en  a'mos'  makes  me  shed  tears,  to  think 
How  jes'  her  comin'  into  the  room  — 

Like  a  sunbeam  stealin'  through  a  chink  — 
'U'd  sometimes  lighten  up  the  gloom, 

Though  she  did  n't  speak  !     I  never  could  git 

No  help  that  wuz  savin'  as  she  wuz  yit. 

So  I  concluded  to  let  the  place. 

'Mos'  wish  I  'd  sold ;  f er  I  can't  go 
Anigh  Drake,  but  he  sasses  me  to  my  face  : 

He  's  the  new  tenant ;  he  's  terrible  slow  ! 
Can't  manage  more  'n  a  fly  !     I  've  had 
Three  others,  but  they  wuz  'bout  as  bad. 

Men  will  ack  so  like  the  very  deuse  ! 

Ye  may  plead  'ith  'em  in  an'  out  o'  season, 
They  're  so  dumb  selfish  't  ain't  no  use 

A-tryin'  to  make  'em  hear  to  reason. 
Evem  Sim's  got  jes'  them  folts  I  hate ! 
Who  he  takes  'em  frum,  I  can't  consait. 

I  kin'  o'  make  it  my  hum  'ith  him, 
An'  visit  around  among  the  relations  ; 

But  the  son-in-lahs  is  wus  'n  Sim  ! 

Hain't  none  o'  the  dotters  got  the  patience 

The  mother  had.     Jemimy  's  the  best, 

Atter  all.     (They  're  doin'  re'l  well,  out  West !) 


AUTHOR'S  NIGHT  85 


You  've  had  your  trouble  as  well  as  me ; 

We  're  barn  tut,  ye  know,  as  the  sparks  fly  up'ard. 
But  when  wus  comes  to  wust,  you  '11  agree 

The'  's  some  comfort  in  a  full  cupboard. 
Jerome  he  left  ye  perty  well  off,  — 
Though  *t  wuz  a  pity  'bout  that  cough ! 

Wai,  here  we  be  agin  !     Sich  is  life. 

You  've  had  yer  Jerome,  I  've  had  my  Mary,  — 
He  made  a  good  husban',  an'  she  a  good  wife,  — 

An'  now,  —  on'y  think  !  —  we  hain't  got  nary  ! 
Jes'  brother  an'  sister  once  more,  is  it  ? 
An'  I  've  come  to  make  ye  a  good  long  visit ! 

AUTHOR'S  NIGHT 

"  BRILLIANT  SUCCESS  !  "  the  play-bills  said, 

Flaming  all  over  the  town  one  day, 

Blazing  in  characters  blue  and  red, 

(Printed  for  posting,  by  the  way, 

Before  the  public  had  seen  the  play !) 
"  Received  with  thunders  of  applause  ! 

New  Piece  !  New  Author  !  !  Tremendous  hit ! ! !  " 

This  was  on  Tuesday  :  still  it  draws, 

And  to-night  is  the  Author's  Benefit. 

"  New  piece  "  :  I  Ve  a  word  to  say  about  that. 
Nine  years  ago,  it  may  be  more, 
There  came  one  day  to  the  manager's  door 
A  hopeful  man,  with  a  modest  rat-tat, 
Who  smilingly  entered,  took  off  his  hat, 
And,  begging  the  great  man's  pardon,  slipt 
Into  his  hand  a  manuscript. 

In  a  month  he  came  again  :  "  The  play  — 
Which  I  troubled  you  with  —  the  other  day  "  — 
"  The  play  ?     Oh !  ah !  "  says  the  manager, 
Politest  of  men.     "  Excuse  me,  sir  ; 
'T  is  being  considered."     (Safe  to  bet 
He  had  n't  looked  at  the  title  yet !) 


86      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY   AND   OTHER   POEMS 

"  I  '11  drop  you  a  line  ;  or  you  '11  confer 

A  favor  by  calling  a  week  from  now." 

And  he  turned  him  out  with  a  model  bow. 

Eight  days  later  again  they  met,  — 

Modest  author  hopeful  as  ever  ; 

But  the  great  man  finished  his  business  thus  : 
ft  I  've  read  your  play,  sir  ;  very  clever; 

But  "  (handing  it  back  to  him)  "  I  regret 

It  is  n't  exactly  the  thing  for  us. 

Good-morning,  sir !  "     Politest  of  men  ! 

Nine  years  ago,  it  may  be  ten. 

Author  and  piece  were  new  enough  then. 
But  sorrow  and  toil  and  poverty 
Have  taken  the  gloss  from  him,  you  see  ; 
And  the  play  was  afterwards  knocked  about 
The  theatres,  keeping  company 
With  dice  and  euchre-packs  so  long, 
And  pipes  and  actors'  paint,  it  grew 
To  look  so  dingy  and  smell  so  strong, 
You  'd  have  called  it  anything  but  new  ! 
Till  gruff  and  gouty  old  Montagu 
Happened  to  take  it  up  one  day  : 
'T  was  after  dinner ;  he  thought,  no  doubt, 
'T  would  help  him  to  a  nap.     "  But  stay  ! 
What  in  the  deuce,  boys  !     Here  's  a  play ! " 
He  rubbed  his  glasses,  forgot  his  gout, 
And  read  till  he  started  up  with  a  shout, 
"  'T  is  just  the  thing  for  my  proUgee, 
And  hang  me,  if  I  don't  bring  it  out !  " 

And  so  it  chanced,  politest  of  men  ! 
The  play  came  into  your  hands  again 
Nine  years  later,  —  did  I  say  ten  ? 
And  either  age  had  improved  its  flavor, 
Or  you  are  wiser  than  you  were  then ; 
For  now  you  deem  it  a  special  favor 
That  gouty  and  grouty  old  Montagu 
Consented  to  bring  it  out  with  you. 


AUTHOR'S  NIGHT  87 


"  Tremendous  hit !  " 
In  the  vast  theatre's  hollow  sphere 
High  hangs  the  glittering  chandelier  ; 

Its  bright  beams  flash  on 

Beauty  and  fashion  ; 
A  sea  of  life  pours  into  the  pit, 
And  cloud  upon  cloud  piles  over  it, 
Where  Youth  and  Pleasure  and  Mirth  and  Passion 
And  Years  and  Folly  and  Wisdom  and  Wit 
Throng  to  the  Author's  Benefit. 

The  orchestra  leader  takes  his  place  ; 

Horn  and  serpent  and  oboe  follow, 

Violin  and  violoncello, 

Trombone,  trumpet,  and  double-bass. 

A  turning  of  music-leaves  begins, 

With  a  thrumming  and  screwing  of  violins  ; 

Then  the  leader  waves  his  bow,  and  —  crash ! 

Kettle-drum  rattles  and  cymbals  clash, 

And  brass  and  strings  and  keen  triangle 

And  high-keyed  piccolo,  piercing  and  pure, 

Their  many-colored  chords  entangle, 

Weaving  the  wild,  proud  overture. 

Old  Montagu,  with  fret  and  frown, 

All  cloaked  and  gloved,  walks  up  and  down 

Before  the  door  of  his  protegee, 

Keeping  her  worshippers  at  bay. 

But  he  catches  one  who  comes  that  way, 

Gives  him  a  gouty  finger  or  two, 

And  seems  quite  civil :  "  Why  did  n't  you 

Have  a  bouquet 

For  my  protegee, 

In  the  boudoir-scene  last  night  ?     'T  will  do 
As  well  to-night,  though."     (Straight  off  goes  gay 
Young  Lothario,  hunting  a  nosegay.) 
He  punches  a  pale  reporter  next 
With  his  playful  cane  :  "  She  's  terribly  vext 
At  you,  young  fellow !     Why  did  n't  you  get 
That  notice  into  your  last  Gazette  ? 
You  will  in  your  next,  eh  ?     Don't  forget !  " 


88      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  gruff  and  snuffy  old  Montagu 
Limps  down  to  the  curtain  and  peeps  through  : 
"  Boys  !  what  a  house  it  is  !     Thanks  to  me, 
The  fellow's  fortune  is  made,"  growls  he. 

Then,  tinkle-tinkle !     The  music  hushes  ; 
Up  to  the  ceiling  the  great  curtain  rushes  ; 

And  a  world  of  surprise 

To  fresh  young  eyes, 

A  realm  of  enchantment,  glows  and  flushes, 
Stretching  far  back  from  the  footlights'  brink. 
How  does  it  look  to  worldly-wise 
And  crusty  old  Montagu,  do  you  think  ? 

And  the  author,  where  all  the  while  is  he  ? 
How  seems  it  to  him  ?     Were  I  in  his  place, 
Turning  at  last  my  toil-worn  face 
From  the  dreary  deserts  of  poverty, 
Would  n't  all  my  heart  leap  high  to  see 
The  flowers  of  beauty  and  fashion  and  grace, 

One  many-hued,  gay, 

Immense  bouquet, 

Flaunting  and  fluttering  here  for  me  ? 
The  costumed  players,  even  she, 

The  bright  young  queen 

Of  the  radiant  scene, 

Speaking  his  speeches,  living  his  thought ; 
And  all  this  vast,  pulsating  mass 
Held  captive  by  the  spell  he  wrought,  — 
Held  breathless,  like  a  sea  of  glass 
That  bursts  in  breakers  of  wild  applause  :  — 
Would  n't  you  conceive  you  had  some  cause 
For  an  honest  thrill,  if  you  were  he  ? 
But  where,  as  we  said,  can  the  fellow  be  ? 

Montagu  is  crabbed  and  old  ; 

And  the  wings  are  barren  and  gusty  and  cold ; 

And,  ah !  could  the  fresh  young  eyes  behold, 
Around  and  under 
That  vision  of  wonder,  — 


AUTHOR'S  NIGHT  89 


Behind  the  counterfeit  joys  and  hopes, 
The  tinsel  and  paint  of  the  players'  parts,  — 
The  barn-like  vault,  with  its  pulleys  and  ropes, 
Shabby  canvas  and  sheet-iron  thunder, 
And,  O,  the  humanest  lives  and  hearts  ! 

Within  the  wings,  just  hid  from  view, 

Snuffy  and  puffy  old  Montagu 

Watches  his  ward,  as  a  lynx  his  prey  ; 

Wheedles  her  lovers,  and  reckons  his  gains ; 

Though  naught  but  praise  of  his  protegee, 

Will  he  hear  from  another,  he  follows  the  play 

With  eyes  that  threaten  and  brows  that  rebuke  her, 

And  lips  that  can  chide  in  a  fierce,  sharp  way, 

When  all  is  over,  for  all  her  pains. 

The  priest  and  the  lover  are  playing  euchre 

In  the  intervals  of  their  parts  ;  the  clown, 

Dull  fellow  enough  when  the  curtain  is  down, 

Has  had,  they  say, 

Bad  news  to-day  ; 

The  merry  ghost  of  the  murdered  man 
Takes  pleasant  revenge  on  the  whiskered  villain 
At  a  game  of  chess  which  they  began 
In  the  green-room,  just  before  the  killing ; 
The  beggar  is  scuffling  with  the  king  ; 
And  the  lovelorn  maiden  is  gossiping 
With  the  misanthrope,  prince  of  all  good  fellows ; 
And  some  are  sad,  and  some  are  gay, 
Some  are  in  love,  and  some  are  jealous ; 
And  there  's  many  a  play  within  the  play ! 

And,  O  young  eyes !  in  yonder  alley, 
Which  the  tall  theatre  overtops 
(Its  sheer  crag  towering  above  a  valley 
Of  poor  men's  tenements  and  shops),  — 
Where  three  little  cherubs,  not  overfed, 
Are  lying  asleep  in  a  trundle-bed, 
While  a  thin,  wan  woman,  sitting  late, 
Is  stitching  a  garment  beside  the  grate,  — 
You  might,  at  this  moment,  see  a  man 


90      THE   EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Act  as  no  paid  performer  can,  — 

In  that  wholly  unstudied,  natural  way 

No  one  to  this  day 

Ever  saw  in  a  play ! 

Out  at  elbows,  out  at  toes, 

A  needy,  seedy,  lank  little  man, 

To  and  fro  and  about  he  goes, 

With  a  vexed  little  bundle  of  infantine  woes ; 

Sitting  down,  rising  up,  and  with  rocking  and  walking, 

With  hushing  and  tossing  and  singing  and  talking, 

Vainly  trying 

To  still  its  crying ; 

While  a  shadow  behind  him,  huge  and  dim, 
With  a  shadow-baby  mimics  him, 

Sketched  on  the  wall, 

Grotesque  and  tall. 

Anon  he  pauses.     Hark  to  the  cheers  ! 

He  laughs  as  he  hears ; 

And  he  says,  "  I  believe  I  could  tell  by  the  cheers 
(If  only  this  child  would  n't  worry  so  !)  — 
Whether  they  come  from  above  or  below, 
Begin  in  the  boxes  or  up  in  the  tiers,  — 
Which  is  the  speech,  and  who  is  the  player ! " 
In  his  keen  face  kindles  a  youthful  glow,  — 
And  lo !  't  is  the  face  of  the  man  we  know ; 

'T  is  certainly  so ! 

Though  faded  and  jaded,  thinner  and  grayer, 
With  a  ghost  of  the  look  of  long  ago. 
"  To  think,"  he  says,  "  I  never  knew 
The  play  was  to  be  brought  out,  until 
I  saw  it  that  morning  on  the  bill ! 
Then  did  n't  I  hurry  home  to  you 
(I  vow,  this  baby  will  never  hush ! 
There,  bite  my  finger,  if  you  will !) 
With  the  wonderful  news  ?    And  did  n't  I  rush 
Up  the  alley,  to  find  old  Montagu  ? 
You  would  n't  believe  it  was  really  true, 
And  you  only  half  believe  it  still ! " 


AUTHOR'S  NIGHT  91 


Reason  enough  that  she  should  doubt ! 

For  has  n't  she  witnessed,  all  these  years, 

His  coming  in,  and  his  going  out, 

His  wisdom,  his  weakness,  his  laughter  and  tears  ? 

Seen  him  pine  and  seen  him  fret  ? 

Eating  his  dinner  (when  dinners  were  had)  ; 

Serious,  frivolous,  hopeful,  sad  ;  — 

Why,  he  never  could  get 

A  living  yet, 
And  all  that  he  tried  has  failed  outright ! 

Now  can  it  be, 

Is  it  really  he, 

This  poor  weak  man  at  her  side,  whose  wit 
Is  making  the  theatre  shake  to-night 
As  if  its  very  sides  would  split  ? 

Odd,  is  it  not  ?     But,  after  all, 
If  you  will  observe,  it  does  n't  take 
A  man  of  giant  mould  to  make 
A  giant  shadow  on  the  wall ; 
And  he  who  in  our  daily  sight 
Seems  but  a  figure  mean  and  small, 
Outlined  in  Fame's  illusive  light, 
May  stalk,  a  silhouette  sublime, 
Across  the  canvas  of  his  time. 

She  answers  with  a  peevish  smile, 
Taking  stitch  upon  stitch  the  while : 
"  Why  did  n't  they  pay  you  something  down 
To  buy  you  a  coat  and  me  a  gown  ? 
Then  I  could  go  to  the  theatre  too, 
And  you  would  n't  be  ashamed  to  sit 
In  the  private  box  they  offered  you, 
Instead  of  sneaking  in  as  you  do. 
They  put  you  off  with  a  benefit ! 
And  how  do  I  know  but  Montagu 
Is  going  to  cheat  you  out  of  it?  " 

"  These  women  never  will  understand 
Some  things !  "  he  cries.     "  How  many  times  more 


92      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Must  I  explain  "  —     A  rap  at  the  door ! 
A  step  on  the  creaking  stairway  floor ! 
He  opens,  and  sees  before  him  stand 
A  visitor,  courteous,  bland,  and  grand,  — 
His  friend,  the  manager,  true  as  you  live ! 
Who  puts  a  packet  into  his  hand, 
Very  much  as  once  we  saw  him  give 
A  manuscript,  with  the  same  old  bow. 
(Everything  seems  altered  now 
But  the  model  man  and  his  model  bow : 
He  will  enter,  I  fancy,  the  other  world 

In  just  this  style,  — 

With  a  flourish  and  smile, 
Diamonds  sparkling,  and  mustache  curled !) 

"  It  gives  me  very  great  pleasure :  one  third 

Of  the  gross  receipts"  :  presenting  the  packet. 
"  For  a  first  instalment,  upon  my  word, 

Not  bad,  my  friend  !  —  A  check,  if  preferred ; 

But  I  thought  you  might  manage  this,"  he  says. 
"  A  little  seed,  which  I  trust  will  grow. 

The  piece  is  certainly  a  success, 

And,  with  the  right  management  to  back  it, 

Will  run,  I  should  say,  six  weeks  or  so. 

Really,  a  very  neat  success ! 

We  shall  always  be  playing  it  more  or  less.    „ 

I  'm  happy  to  say  so  much ;  although 

I  think  I  was  right,  nine  years  ago. 

(Sign  this  little  receipt,  if  you  please  ?) 

Times  were  not  ripe  for  it  then,  you  know ; 

The  play  would  have  failed,  nine  years  ago. 

Now,  when  can  you  give  us  another  piece  ?  " 

The  author,  in  the  sudden  heat 
And  tumult  of  his  joy  (or  is  it 
His  strange  confusion  at  this  visit  ? 
The  greatest  honor  of  all  his  life !) 
Partly  because  the  said  receipt 
Is  to  be  signed,  and  partly,  maybe, 
Because  one  arm  still  holds  the  baby, 


AUTHOR'S   NIGHT  93 


Turns  over  the  packet  to  his  wife. 

She  tears  the  wrapper,  and  both  her  hands 

Amazed  she  raises,  — 

Amazed  she  gazes ! 

The  bursting  treasure  her  broad  lap  fills,  — 
Gold  and  silver  and  good  bank-bills  ! 
Why,  this  at  last  she  understands  ; 
And  now  she  believes  in  the  benefit, 
In  the  manager,  and  in  Montagu, 
In  the  play,  and  just  a  little  bit 
In  her  dear,  old,  clever  husband  too  ! 

As  for  him,  he  seizes  his  hat,  — 
Wife  and  children  must  have  a  treat ! 
He  follows  the  manager  into  the  street, 
Bent  on  purchasing  this  and  that, 
Something  to  wear  and  something  to  eat. 
But  the  worthy  man  is  quite  too  fast : 
The  shops  are  mostly  closed  ;  and  at  last 
He  comes  around  to  the  play-house  door, 

Where  he  hears  such  a  din 

Burst  forth  within, 
What  does  he  do,  but  just  look  in  ? 

He  reaches  the  lobby,  and  stands  in  the  crowd ; 

By  craning  his  neck,  and  tiptoeing  tall, 

He  can  see  that  the  curtain  is  down,  that  's  all. 

But  still  the  roar 

Goes  up  as  before, 

Shout  upon  shout ! 

Rapping  and  clapping  and  whistling  and  calling, 
Stamping  and  tramping  and  caterwauling. 
So  he  cries  aloud  to  a  man  in  the  crowd, 

"  What  is  it  about  ?  " 
And  the  man  in  the  crowd  screams  back  as  loud, 

"  Don't  you  know  ? 

It  's  the  end  of  the  show  ! 
They  're  trying  to  call  the  author  out !  " 


94      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  manager  appears  in  his  place, 
Hat  in  hand,  extremely  polite, 
Bowing  and  smiling  to  left  and  right, 
(If  only  the  author  could  get  a  sight !) 
And  delivers  with  characteristic  grace 
A  neat  little  speech  of  about  a  minute, 
With  a  plenty  of  pleasant  nothings  in  it :  — 

"  Author  —  unable  to  appear  — 

Obliged  —  presents  — 

Compliments  "  — 
(If  only  the  author  himself  could  hear ! 

How  the  people  cheer  !) 
"  Company  —  favorite  —  credit  due  — 
My  friend  and  the  public's  —  Montagu  — 
Theatre  —  enterprise  in  securing  — 
Author  —  other  plans  maturing  — 
Public  —  generous  appreciation  — 

Gratification  — 

This  ovation  "  — 

And  so,  with  a  beautiful  peroration, 
Just  the  thing  for  the  happy  occasion, 
He  sails  away  in  the  breeze  of  a  grand  sensation. 

All  is  over,  and  out  with  the  throng 

The  jostled  author  is  borne  along. 

Will  the  fresh  young  eyes,  I  wonder,  see 

The  crumpled  man  in  the  crowd,  and  note 

The  napless  hat  and  the  seedy  coat  ? 

Alone,  unknown,  he  goes  his  way, 

None  so  unknown  and  lonely  as  he ! 

While  he  hears  at  his  side  a  sweet  voice  say, 

"  O,  what  would  n't  any  one  give  to  be 

The  author  of  that  delightful  play ! 

I  know  he  is  handsome,  he  must  be  gay, 

And  tall,  —  though  of  that  I  'm  not  so  certain. 

Why  did  n't  he  come  before  the  curtain  ?  " 


ONE  DAY  SOLITARY  95 

ONE   DAY   SOLITARY 

I  AM  all  right !  good-by,  old  chap  ! 

Twenty-four  hours,  that  won't  be  long. 
Nothing  to  do  but  take  a  nap, 

And  —  say  !  can  a  fellow  sing  a  song  ? 
Will  the  light  fantastic  be  in  order,  — 

A  pigeon-wing  on  your  pantry  floor  ? 
What  are  the  rules  for  a  regular  boarder  ? 

Be  quiet  ?     All  right !  —  Cling  clang  goes  the  door ! 

Clang  clink,  the  bolts !  and  I  am  locked  in. 

Some  pious  reflection  and  repentance 
Come  next,  I  suppose,  for  I  just  begin 

To  perceive  the  sting  in  the  tail  of  my  sentence,  — 
"  One  day  whereof  shall  be  solitary." 

Here  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  journey, 
And  —  well,  it  ain't  jolly,  not  so  very  !  — 

I  'd  like  to  throttle  that  sharp  attorney ! 

He  took  my  money,  the  very  last  dollar ; 

Did  n't  leave  me  so  much  as  a  dime, 
Not  enough  to  buy  me  a  paper  collar 

To  wear  at  my  trial ;  he  knew  all  the  time 
'T  was  some  that  I  got  for  the  stolen  silver ! 

Why  has  n't  he  been  indicted  too  ? 
If  he  does  n't  exactly  rob  and  pilfer, 

He  lives  by  the  plunder  of  them  that  do. 

Then  did  n't  it  put  me  into  a  fury, 

To  see  him  step  up,  and  laugh  and  chat 
With  the  lying  lawyers,  and  joke  with  the  jury, 

When  all  was  over,  —  then  go  for  his  hat,  — 
While  Sue  was  sobbing  to  break  her  heart, 

And  all  I  could  do  was  to  stand  and  stare ! 
He  had  pleaded  my  cause  ;  he  had  played  his  part 

And  got  his  fee  ;  and  what  more  did  he  care  ? 

But  why  blame  him  ?     When  I  go  out, 

I  '11  leave  plain  thieving,  and  take  to  the  law  ; 


96      THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

That  will  be  safer  !     These  are  about 
The  lonesomest  lodgings  ever  I  saw ! 

There  would  n't  be  room  for  cutting  a  caper, 
If  I  was  inclined  ;  and  it 's  just  as  well ! 

Wish  I  could  ring  for  the  morning  paper  ! 
Can't  say  that  I  fancy  this  hotel. 

It 's  droll  to  think  how,  just  out  yonder, 

The  world  goes  jogging  on  the  same  ! 
Old  men  will  save  and  boys  will  squander, 

And  fellows  will  play  at  the  same  old  game 
Of  get-and-spend,  —  to-morrow,  next  year,  — 

And  drink  and  carouse ;  and  who  will  there  be 
To  remember  a  comrade  buried  here  ? 

I  am  nothing  to  them,  they  are  nothing  to  me ! 

And  Sue,  —  yes,  she  will  forget  me  too  ! 

I  know  !  already  her  tears  are  drying. 
I  believe  there  is  nothing  that  girl  can  do 

So  easy  as  laughing  and  lying  and  crying. 
She  clung  to  me  well  while  there  was  hope, 

Then  broke  her  heart  in  that  last  wild  sob ; 
But  she  ain't  going  to  sit  and  mope 

While  I  am  at  work  on  a  five  years'  job. 

They  '11  set  me  to  learning  a  trade,  no  doubt ; 

And  I  must  forget  to  speak  or  smile. 
I  shall  go  marching  in  and  out, 

One  of  a  silent,  tramping  file 
Of  felons,  at  morning  and  noon  and  night,  — 

Just  down  to  the  shops  and  back  to  the  cells,  — 
And  work  with  a  thief  at  left  and  right, 

And  feed  and  sleep  and  —  nothing  else  ? 

Was  I  born  for  this  ?     Will  the  old  folks  know  ? 

I  can  see  them  now  on  the  old  home-place  : 
His  gait  is  feeble,  his  step  is  slow, 

There  's  a  settled  grief  in  his  furrowed  face ; 
While  she  goes  wearily  groping  about 

In  a  sort  of  dream,  so  bent,  so  sad !  — 


ONE  DAY  SOLITARY  97 

But  this  won't  do !     I  must  sing  and  shout, 
And  forget  myself,  or  else  go  mad. 

I  won't  be  foolish  ;  although,  for  a  minute, 

I  was  there  in  my  little  room  once  more. 
What  would  n't  I  give  just  now  to  be  in  it  ? 

The  bed  is  yonder,  and  there  is  the  door  ;  — 
The  Bible  is  here  on  the  neat  white  stand. 

The  summer-sweets  are  ripening  now ; 
In  the  flickering  light  I  reach  my  hand 

From  the  window,  and  pluck  them  from  the  bough ! 

When  I  was  a  child,  (O,  well  for  me 

And  them  if  I  had  never  been  older !) 
When  he  told  me  stories  on  his  knee, 

And  tossed  me,  and  carried  me  on  his  shoulder ; 
When  she  knelt  down  and  heard  my  prayer, 

And  gave  me  in  bed  my  good-night  kiss,  — 
Did  ever  they  think  that  all  their  care 

For  an  only  son  could  come  to  this  ? 

Foolish  again  !     No  sense  in  tears 

And  gnashing  the  teeth !     And  yet  —  somehow  — 
I  have  n't  thought  of  them  so  for  years  ! 

I  never  knew  them,  I  think,  till  now. 
How  fondly,  how  blindly,  they  trusted  me  ! 

When  I  should  have  been  in  my  bed  asleep, 
I  slipped  from  the  window,  and  down  the  tree, 

And  sowed  for  the  harvest  that  now  I  reap. 

And  Jennie,  —  how  could  I  bear  to  leave  her  ? 

If  I  had  but  wished  —  but  I  was  a  fool ! 
My  heart  was  filled  with  a  thirst  and  fever 

That  no  sweet  airs  of  heaven  could  cool. 
I  can  hear  her  asking,  —  "  Have  you  heard  ?  " 

But  mother  falters,  and  shakes  her  head : 
O  Jennie  !  Jennie  !  never  a  word ! 

What  can  it  mean  ?     He  must  be  dead !  " 

Light-hearted,  a  proud,  ambitious  lad, 
I  left  my  home  that  morning  in  May ; 


98      THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

What  visions,  what  hopes,  what  plans  I  had ! 

And  what  have  I  —  where  are  they  all  —  to-day  ? 
Wild  fellows,  and  wine,  and  debts,  and  gaming, 

Disgrace,  and  the  loss  of  place  and  friend,  — 
And  I  was  an  outlaw,  past  reclaiming  : 

Arrest  and  sentence,  and  —  this  is  the  end ! 

Five  years  !     Shall  ever  I  quit  this  prison  ? 

Homeless,  an  outcast,  where  shall  I  go  ? 
Return  to  them,  like  one  arisen 

From  the  grave,  who  was  buried  long  ago? 
All  is  still ;  it 's  the  close  of  the  week ; 

I  slink  through  the  garden,  I  stop  by  the  well ; 
I  see  him  totter,  I  hear  her  shriek  !  — 

What  sort  of  a  tale  shall  I  have  to  tell  ? 

But  here  I  am !     What 's  the  use  of  grieving  ? 

Five  years  —  will  it  be  too  late  to  begin  ? 
Can  sober  thinking  and  honest  living 

Still  make  me  the  man  I  might  have  been  ?  — 
I  '11  sleep.     O,  would  I  could  wake  to-morrow 

In  that  old  room,  to  find,  at  last, 
That  all  my  trouble  and  all  their  sorrow 

Are  only  a  dream  of  the  night  that  is  past ! 


ONE   BIRTHDAY 

WHERE  the  willows  that  overhang  the  lane 

Make  a  pleasant  shade  in  the  golden  weather, 
Through  gleams  that  flicker  on  flank  and  mane 

The  mare  and  her  colt  come  home  together ; 
Over  them  softly,  one  by  one, 

I  see  the  yellowing  leaflets  fall, 
And  lie  like  brighter  spots  of  sun 

On  the  faded  turf  and  gray  stone-wall :  — 

Of  all  the  scenes  in  my  life,  to-day 

That  is  the  one  that  I  remember ; 
How  sweetly  on  all  the  landscape  lay 

The  mellow  sunlight  of  September  ! 


ONE  BIRTHDAY  99 


It  slept  in  the  boughs  of  the  hazy  wood, 

On  glimmering  stubble  and  stacks  of  grain  : 

And  there  at  the  farm-yard  bars  we  stood 

While  the  mare  and  her  colt  came  up  the  lane. 

The  bright  leaves  fell,  and  over  us  blew 

The  fairy  balloons  of  the  air-borne  thistle, 
As,  pricking  her  ears  at  the  call  she  knew, 

With  whinny  and  prance  at  voice  and  whistle, 
Coquettish  and  coy,  she  came  with  her  foal : 

O,  well  I  remember,  —  his  neck  and  ears 
By  her  great  gray  side  shone  black  as  a  coal, 

And  his  legs  were  slender  and  trim  as  a  deer's ! 

With  hands  on  the  bars,  and  curly  head  bare, 

I  stood,  while  farm  boy  Fred,  who  was  taller, 
Reached  over  and  shook,  at  the  proud,  shy  mare, 

A  handful  of  oats  in  my  hat,  to  call  her. 
Then  a  form  I  loved  came  close  behind, 

A  hand  I  loved  on  my  shoulder  lay, 
And  a  dear  voice  spoke,  —  so  gentle  and  kind, 

Ah,  would  I  could  hear  its  tones  to-day !  — 

"  There  is  n't  a  handsomer  colt  in  town ! 

Just  look  at  that  beautiful  neck  and  shoulder ! 
His  color  will  change  to  a  chestnut  brown, 
To  match  your  curls,  as  he  grows  older. 
This  is  your  birthday  —  let  me  see !  " 

The  hand  went  higher  and  stroked  my  head : 
"  I  '11  make  you  a  present  —  what  shall  it  be  ?  " 
"  O  father !  give  me  the  colt !  "  I  said. 

And  the  colt  was  mine  —  how  proud  was  I !  — 

The  doves  sailed  down  from  the  sunlit  gable, 
The  valiant  cock  gave  a  challenging  cry, 

The  cockerel  croaked  in  the  open  stable  :  — 
So  well  I  recall  each  sight  and  sound 

That  filled  the  heart  of  the  happy  boy, 
And  left  one  day  in  my  memory  crowned 

Forever  with  color  and  light  and  joy. 


100    THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 
THE   STREAMLET 

IT  is  only  the  tiniest  stream, 

With  nothing  whatever  to  do, 
But  to  creep  from  its  mosses,  and  gleam 

In  just  a  thin  ribbon  or  two, 
Where  it  spills  from  the  rock,  and  besprinkles 

The  flowers  all  round  it  with  dew. 

Half-way  up  the  hillside  it  slips 
From  darkness  out  into  the  light, 

Slides  over  the  ledges,  and  drips 
In  a  basin  all  bubbling  and  bright, 

Then  once  more,  in  the  long  meadow-grasses, 
In  silence  it  sinks  out  of  sight. 

So  slender,  so  brief  in  its  course  ! 

It  will  never  be  useful  or  grand, 
Like  the  waterfall  foaming  and  hoarse, 

Or  the  river  benignant  and  bland, 
That  sweeps  far  away  through  the  valley, 

And  turns  all  the  mills  in  the  land. 

Just  a  brooklet,  so  perfect,  so  sweet,  — 
Like  a  child  that  is  always  a  child ! 

A  picture  as  fair  and  complete, 
And  as  softly  and  peacefully  wild, 

As  if  Nature  had  only  just  made  it, 
And  laid  down  her  pencil  and  smiled. 

The  strong  eagle  perched  on  these  rocks 
And  dipped  his  proud  beak,  long  ago ; 

In  the  gray  of  the  morning  the  fox 
Came  and  lapped  in  the  basin  below ; 

By  a  hoof-printed  trail  through  the  thicket 
The  deer  used  to  pass  to  and  fro. 

Now  the  jolly  haymakers  in  June 

Bring  their  luncheon,  and  couch  on  the  cool 


THE  STREAMLET  101 


Grassy  margin,  and  drink,  to  £he  tune 

The  brook  makes  in  tho  pelyUWine 
From  grandfather  down  to  the  youngsters 

In  haying-time  kept  out  of  school. 

They  joke  and  tell  tales  as  they  eat, 

While,  wistful  his  share  to  receive, 
The  dog  wags  his  tail  at  their  feet ; 

Then  each  stout  mower  tucks  up  his  sleeve, 
And  the  farmer  cries,  "  Come,  hoys !  "     The  squirrel 

Dines  well  on  the  crumbs  which  they  leave. 

The  children  all  know  of  the  place, 
And  here  with  their  basket,  in  search 

Of  wild  roses,  come  Bertha  and  Grace, 
And  Paul  with  his  fish-pole  and  perch, 

While  the  meadowlark  sings,  and  above  them 
The  woodpecker  drums  on  the  birch. 

Is  the  drop  the  bee  finds  in  the  clover 
More  sweet  than  the  liquor  they  quaff  ? 

It  drips  in  the  cup,  and  runs  over  ; 
And,  sipping  it,  spilling  it  half,  — 

Hear  their  mirth  !     Did  Grace  learn  of  the  brooklet 
That  low,  lisping,  crystalh'ne  laugh  ? 

For  music  I  'm  sure  that  it  taught 

Its  neighbor,  the  pied  bobolink,  — 
Where  else  could  the  fellow  have  caught 

That  sweet,  liquid  note,  do  you  think, 
Half  tinkle,  half  gurgle  ?     The  wren,  too, 

I  'm  certain  has  been  here  to  drink ! 

O,  teach  me  your  song,  happy  brook ! 

If  I  visit  you  yet  many  times, 
If  I  put  away  business  and  book, 

And  list  to  your  fairy-bell  chimes, 
Will  your  freshness  breathe  into  my  verses, 

Your  music  glide  into  my  rhymes  ? 


102  THE  EMIGRANT'S  £TORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  PHANTOM  CHAPEL 


THE  night-breeze  puffed  our  sail,  as  through 
The  shadowy  strait  we  steered ;  and  soon 

Along  the  flashing  lake  we  flew, 
Upon  the  white  wake  of  the  moon. 

Betwixt  the  islands  and  the  shore, 
From  cape  to  cape,  we  still  pursued 

Her  sparkling  keel,  which  sped  before 
Like  hopes  that,  laughing,  still  elude. 

The  mild  night's  universal  smile 

Touched  sheltered  cove  and  glistening  leaf ; 
Each  shadow-girt  and  wooded  isle 

Shook  in  the  wind  its  silvered  sheaf. 

By  day  a  flower,  by  night  a  bud, 

Her  pure  soul  rocked  in  dreamy  calms, 

The  lily  slept  upon  the  flood 

Her  nun-like  sleep  with  outspread  palms. 

From  cove  to  cove,  from  cape  to  cape, 

We  chased  the  hurrying  moon,  —  when,  lo ! 

In  yonder  glen,  what  gleaming  shape 
Behind  the  trees  uprises  slow  ? 

Between  the  upland  and  the  wood, 

Half  hid  by  elms  that  fringed  the  shore, 

The  semblance  of  a  chapel  stood 
Where  never  chapel  stood  before. 

All  still  and  fair,  in  misty  air, 

The  lovely  miracle  upsprings, 
As  if  some  great  white  angel  there, 

Just  lighted,  stooped  with  half-shut  wings. 

Locked  in  the  lonely  vale,  aloof 

From  men,  the  Gothic  wonder  rose  : 


THE  PHANTOM  CHAPEL  103 

On  pallid  pinnacle  and  roof 

The  quiet  moonlight  shed  its  snows. 

From  the  dim  pile,  across  the  gray, 

Uncertain  landscape,  faintly  came, 
Through  pictured  panes,  a  stained  ray, 

Red  from  some  martyr's  shirt  of  flame. 

And,  listening  ever,  we  could  trace 

The  strains  of  a  mysterious  hymn, 
Divinely  cadenced,  like  the  praise 

Of  far-off  quiring  seraphim. 

The  winds  were  hushed  :  a  holy  calm 

Filled  all  the  night :  it  seemed  as  if 
The  spirit  of  that  solemn  psalm 

Had  charmed  the  waves  that  rocked  our  skiff. 

The  winds  were  hushed,  our  hearts  were  bowed 

In  silent  awe,  when  on  the  night 
Rose  dark  and  slow  a  winge'd  cloud, 

And  swept  the  marvel  from  our  sight. 

But,  homeward  voyaging,  we  seemed 

Like  souls  that  leave  a  realm  enchanted, 
And  all  night  long  in  memory  gleamed 

That  moonlit  valley  wonder-haunted. 


H 

Upon  the  morrow,  to  explore 

At  dawn  the  mystery  of  the  night, 

We  pushed  once  more  our  boat  from  shore, 
Through  whispering  flags  and  lilies  white. 

Along  the  widening  strait  we  steered, 
Past  windy  cape  and  sheltered  cove  : 

The  cape  we  cleared,  the  vale  we  neared, 
There  sloped  the  upland,  flushed  the  grove ; 


104  THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And,  where  the  church  had  stood,  behold ! 

The  latticed  wing  and  pointed  gable 
And  well-sweep  of  a  farmhouse  old, 

Turret  and  vane  on  barn  and  stable  1 

There  at  their  work  the  housemaids  sung 
The  songs  that  had  entranced  the  night ; 

The  farm-boy's  magic-lantern  hung, 
A  pumpkin,  in  the  morning  light ! 

Thereat  we  murmured :  "  Wherefore  pray 
For  perfect  knowledge  ?     Better  far 

Than  the  sure  insight  of  the  day, 
The  moonlight's  soft  illusions  are. 

"  The  moon  is  full  of  fairy  dreams  : 

She  pours  them  from  her  pensile  horn, 
And  buildeth  with  her  silver  beams 
Fabrics  too  frail  to  meet  the  morn* 

"  So  fade  the  airy  hopes  of  youth, 

And  Love's  young  promise  disappears 
Before  the  morning  gray  of  Truth, 
The  unsparing  light  of  later  years. 

"  So  perish  manhood's  pillared  schemes ; 

And  in  the  dawning  of  that  day 
That  wakes  us  from  this  world  of  dreams, 
Even  church  and  faith  may  fade  away." 

But  one  said,  "  Nay,  though  we  may  miss 
The  cherished,  changeful  veil  of  things, 

Within  illusion's  chrysalis 

The  shrouded  Truth  hides  shining  wings. 

"  Though  we  may  miss  the  pearl  and  goldr 

And  heaven  be  other  than  we  deem, 
Doubt  not  the  future  will  unfold 

To  something  better  than  our  dream. 


THE  CUP  105 


"  Last  evening's  bud  laughs  on  the  flood, 

A  perfect  flower  of  purest  white  ; 
And  life  is  but  a  folded  bud 

That  still  awaits  the  Morning  Light." 

Even  while  we  spoke,  a  sweeter  charm 
Than  ever  night  and  moonlight  knew, 

Breathed  over  all  the  breezy  farm, 

And  lurked  in  shade  and  shone  in  dew. 

Freshness  of  life  and  pure  delight 
In  earth  and  air,  in  sight  and  sound, 

Displaced  the  fancies  of  the  night, 
And  better  than  we  sought  we  found. 

The  farmhouse,  fairer  in  the  glance 
Of  dawn  than  in  its  moonlight  vest, 

Lay  clasped  in  airs  of  sweet  romance 
And  tender  human  interest. 

Along  the  dazzling  waves  the  glory 
Of  the  full  summer  morning  blazed ; 

From  the  sun-fronting  promontory 
The  crescent-crowne'd  cattle  gazed. 

The  wild  crows  cawed ;  on  great  slow  wings 
Up  soared  the  heron  from  the  brake  ; 

The  pickerel  leaped  in  rippling  rings  ; 
The  supple  swallow  skimmed  the  lake. 

O'er  all,  its  roof  the  blue  above, 
Its  floor  the  common  daily  sod, 

Walled  round  with  light,  upheld  by  Love, 
Arose  the  living  Church  of  God. 

THE   CUP 

THE  cup  I  sing  is  a  cup  of  gold, 
Many  and  many  a  century  old, 
Sculptured  fair,  and  over-filled 
With  wine  of  a  generous  vintage,  spilled 


106    THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

In  crystal  currents  and  foaming  tides 
All  round  its  luminous,  pictured  sides. 

Old  Time  enamelled  and  embossed 

This  ancient  cup  at  an  infinite  cost. 

Its  frame  he  wrought  of  metal  run 

Red  from  the  furnace  of  the  sun. 

Ages  on  ages  slowly  rolled 

Before  the  glowing  mass  was  cold, 

And  still  he  toiled  at  the  antique  mould,  — 

Turning  it  fast  in  his  fashioning  hand, 

Tracing  circle,  layer,  and  band, 

Carving  figures  quaint  and  strange, 

Pursuing,  through  many  a  wondrous  change, 

The  symmetry  of  a  plan  divine. 

At  last  he  poured  the  lustrous  wine, 

Crowned  high  the  radiant  wave  with  light, 

And  held  aloft  the  goblet  bright, 

Half  in  shadow,  and  wreathed  in  mist 

Of  purple,  amber,  and  amethyst. 

This  is  the  goblet  from  whose  brink 

All  creatures  that  have  life  must  drink  : 

Foemen  and  lovers,  haughty  lord, 

And  sallow  beggar  with  lips  abhorred. 

The  new-born  infant,  ere  it  gain 

The  mother's  breast,  this  wine  must  drain. 

The  oak  with  its  subtile  juice  is  fed, 

The  rose  drinks  till  her  cheeks  are  red, 

And  the  dimpled,  dainty  violet  sips 

The  limpid  stream  with  loving  lips. 

It  holds  the  blood  of  sun  and  star, 

And  all  pure  essences  that  are : 

No  fruit  so  high  on  the  heavenly  vine, 

Whose  golden  hanging  clusters  shine 

On  the  far-off  shadowy  midnight  hills, 

But  some  sweet  influence  it  distils 

That  slideth  down  the  silvery  rills. 

Here  Wisdom  drowned  her  dangerous  thought, 

The  early  gods  their  secrets  brought ; 


THE  MISSING  LEAF  107 

Beauty,  in  quivering  lines  of  light, 
Ripples  before  the  ravished  sight ; 
And  the  unseen  mystic  spheres  combine 
To  charm  the  cup  and  drug  the  wine. 

All  day  I  drink  of  the  wine,  and  deep 

In  its  stainless  waves  my  senses  steep ; 

All  night  my  peaceful  soul  lies  drowned 

In  hollows  of  the  cup  profound  ; 

Again  each  morn  I  clamber  up 

The  emerald  crater  of  the  cup, 

On  massive  knobs  of  jasper  stand 

And  view  the  azure  ring  expand : 

I  watch  the  foam-wreaths  toss  and  swim 

In  the  wine  that  o'erruns  the  jewelled  rim :  — 

Edges  of  chrysolite  emerge, 

Dawn-tinted,  from  the  misty  surge  : 

My  thrilled,  uncovered  front  I  lave, 

My  eager  senses  kiss  the  wave, 

And  drain,  with  its  viewless  draught,  the  lore 

That  kindles  the  bosom's  secret  core, 

And  the  fire  that  maddens  the  poet's  brain 

With  wild  sweet  ardor  and  heavenly  pain. 


THE   MISSING  LEAF 

BY  chance,  in  the  dusty  old  library  foraging, 

Seeking  some  food  for  my  fancy,  I  drew 
From  its  shelf  a  stout  volume,  entitled  The  Origin 

And  End  of  Creation  (a  sort  of  review 
Of  the  Works  of  the  Lord,  by  a  confident  critic). 

"  Now  here  should  be  something,"  I  said,  "  that 's  worth  saving, 
Profound,  philosophical,  learned,  analytic,"  — 

Just  what  my  insatiable  soul  had  been  craving. 

I  bore  the  rich  prize  to  a  nook  by  the  window, 

And  revelled  straightway  in  the  lore  of  the  ages,  — 

Chinese,  Persian,  Roman,  Greek,  Hebrew,  and  Hindoo, 
With  modern  research  to  its  ultimate  stages : 


108    THE   EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

All  which,  to  what  followed,  was  but  the  musician's 

Light  touches  to  see  if  his  strings  were  in  tune,  a  verse 

Used  by  the  wizard  to  conjure  his  visions  : 

Then  opened  the  writer's  grand  scheme  of  the  universe. 

He  held  the  round  world  in  his  hand  like  a  watch, 

With  the  sun  and  the  stars  for  the  chain  and  the  seal ; 
Showed  the  cases  of  gold  and  of  crystal,  the  notch 

Where  the  thing  was  wound  up,  pivot,  mainspring,  and  wheel, 
And  —  in  short,  you  'd  have  fancied,  his  knowledge  was  such, 

He  could  take  it  to  pieces  and  put  it  together, 
And  set  it  agoing  again  with  a  touch 

Of  just  the  right  oil  from  his  erudite  feather  ! 

I  read  and  read  on,  by  divine  curiosity 

Fired,  in  pursuit  of  one  still  missing  page, 
One  leaf,  to  redeem  this  portentous  verbosity, 

Then  —     Well,  I  just  flung  down  the  book  in  a  rage  ; 
Through  the  window,  out  into  the  garden  I  sprung, 

Put  screens  of  red  roses  and  jasmines  between  us, 
And  cooled  my  hot  brow  and  my  anger  among 

The  dear  little  illiterate  pinks  and  verbenas. 

The  martins  that  flew  to  their  summer-house  door, 

The  voluble  finches  their  little  ones  feeding, 
The  snail  with  his  pack  on  his  back,  taught  me  more 

Than  all  the  pedantic  sad  stuff  I  'd  been  reading. 
The  river  moved  by  without  ripple  or  swirl, 

The  world  in  its  bosom,  a  wondrous  illusion ! 
And  even  the  slow  kitchen  smoke's  upward  curl 

Hinted  beauties  beyond  my  great  author's  solution. 

A  spider  was  weaving  his  net  by  the  stream  ; 

And  in  the  thin  gossamer's  light  agitation 
I  saw  my  philosopher  flaunting  his  scheme 

Before  the  vast,  mystical  web  of  creation ! 
I  watched  the  still  swan  on  the  water  afloat, 

The  sisterly  birches  bowed  over  the  glass, 
Their  white  limbs  reflected,  the  boys  in  their  boat, 

The  colts  on  the  bank,  fetlock-deep  in  the  grass ; 


THE  MISSING  LEAF  109 

I  heard,  over  hay-fields  and  clover-lots  wafted, 

The  lowing  of  kine  ;  and  so  cool  was  the  kiss 
Of  the  breeze  on  my  temples,  —  the  air,  as  I  quaffed  it, 

So  sweet  to  my  sense,  —  that  mere  breathing  was  bliss  ! 
And  I  cried,  "  Who  can  say  how  this  life  has  its  being ; 

How  landscape  and  sky  with  delight  overfill  me ; 
Why  sound  should  enchant ;  how  these  eyes  have  their  seeing ; 

How  passion  and  rapture  enkindle  and  thrill  me  ? 

"  I  prize  the  least  pebble  your  science  can  bring, 

Or  whispering  shell,  from  the  shore  of  life's  ocean ; 
No  word  the  true  prophet  or  poet  may  sing, 

But  deep  in  my  heart  stirs  responsive  emotion  : 
Yet  who  can  tell  aught  of  this  afternoon  glory, 

This  light  and  this  ether,  this  wave  and  this  clover  ? 
Not  a  syllable  lisped,  of  the  marvellous  story, 

In  all  your  nine  hundred  dull  pages  and  over  ! 

"  What  moulds  to  my  likeness  these  limbs  and  these  features, 

This  tangible  form  to  the  form  hid  within  it  ? 
Bright  robe  renewed  daily  and  nightly  by  Nature's 

Invisible  spindles,  that  ceaselessly  spin  it, 
Marble-firm  fibre  and  milky-fine  filament : 

The  pulse's  soft  shuttle  mysteriously  weaving 
From  dust  and  corruption  a  living  habiliment : 

Oldest  of  miracles,  still  past  believing ! 

"  And  you  —  did  you  fancy  that  you  could  infold  it, 

And  label  it,  fast  in  your  tissue  of  fallacies  ? 
While  firm  in  the  grasp  of  your  reason  you  hold  it, 

It  flies,  it  defies  your  most  subtile  analysis  ! 
There  's  something  that  will  not  be  measured  and  weighed, 

And  brought  to  the  test  of  your  last  sublimation ; 
And  this  is  the  little  mistake  that  you  made, 

That  you  left  it  quite  out  of  your  grand  calculation. 

"  Though  other  than  bigots  have  deemed,  the  Creator 
Is  not  the  blind  physical  force  you  believe  him ; 
Not  less,  O,  be  sure,  but  unspeakably  greater, 

Than  creeds  have  proclaimed,  or  than  sages  conceive  him ! 


110    THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Of  nothing  comes  nothing :  springs  rise  not  above 

Their  source  in  the  far-hidden  heart  of  the  mountains  : 

Whence  then  have  descended  the  Wisdom  and  Love 
/That  in  man  leap  to  light  in  intelligent  fountains  ?  " 

So,  bathed  in  the  sunset,  I  stood  by  the  stream, 

With  a  heart  full  of  joy  and  devout  adoration, 
Enwrapped  in  my  mystery,  dreaming  my  dream, 

Till  my  soul  seemed  dissolved  in  the  Soul  of  Creation. 
I  looked,  and  saw  wonder  on  wonder  without, 

And,  looking  within,  beheld  wonder  on  wonder, 
And  trembled  between,  like  the  swan  floating  out, 

With  one  sky  arched  above  and  one  sky  imaged  under ! 


THE   CITY   OF   GOOD-WILL 

As  through  the  wood  I  went,  by  rock  and  spring, 
And  leopard-colored  banks  with  bright  moss  furred, 

Careless  as  are  the  brooks,  or  birds  that  sing, 
Of  any  other  song  of  brook  or  bird  ; 

Heeding  my  own  sweet  thoughts,  and  hearkening 
To  voices  which  no  ear  has  ever  heard ; 

Through  moss  and  leaf  and  flickering  sunbeam,  seeing 

A  world  that  in  my  own  mind  had  its  being  ;  — 

As  thus  I  went,  the  pathway  ceased  in  light : 

Aloft  upon  a  jutting  crag  I  stood, 
Beside  a  sudden  torrent  leaping  white 

From  out  its  lair  within  the  darksome  wood: 
A  sea  of  dazzling  mist  below  the  height 

Heaved  silently  ;  while  on  the  solitude, 
From  the  deep  bosom  of  an  unseen  valley, 
The  sound  of  many  bells  broke  musically. 

Slowly  anon,  like  a  wind-wasted  cloud, 
The  veil  of  vapor,  lifting,  rolled  asunder  ; 

And  through  its  lucent  edges  pierced  the  proud 
Spires  of  a  vast,  dim  city,  shining  under, 

Whose  golden  belfries,  still  more  sweetly  loud, 

Pealed  forth,  unmuffled,  their  harmonious  thunder, 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD-WILL  111 

Beneath  a  full,  resplendent  bow,  which  spanned 
With  its  swift  arch  all  that  enchanted  land. 

The  forest  path  had  ceased  :  but  there,  beside 
The  torrent  tumbling  sheer  athwart  the  brown 

Crest  of  the  crag,  a  stairway  I  descried, 

By  many  a  vine-clad  terrace  winding  down ; 

And  with  the  wild,  white  waters  for  my  guide, 
I  took  that  wondrous  highway  to  the  town, 

Past  many  a  cottage  hanging  like  a  nest, 

Or  bosomed  in  the  mountain's  verdurous  vest. 

So  to  the  foot  I  came  of  that  high  hill ; 

And  on  a  lofty  flower-wreathed  gateway  saw 
These  sun-bright  words  :  "  THE  CITY  OF  GOOD-WILL  :  " 

And  through  its  welcoming  portal  went  with  awe. 
On  arch  beyond  high  arch  uprising  still, 

I  read,  "  TRUTH  is  OUR  TRUST,"  and  "  LOVE  is  LAW." 
Thus,  flaming  amid  flowers,  on  every  hand 
Were  raised  the  written  statutes  of  the  land. 

Strange  yet  familiar  were  the  streets  :  I  seemed 

Revisiting,  upon  a  festal  day, 
Some  future  London,  or  New  York  redeemed  ; 

So  sweet  a  peace  on  all  that  city  lay  ! 
And  over  all  an  air  of  gladness  gleamed, 

Which  never  shone  in  Cheapside  or  Broadway,  — 
A  light,  methought,  which  came  not  from  the  sky, 
But  from  the  faces  of  the  passers-by. 

I  talked  with  some.     They  were  a  strong,  fair  race, 
Who  wrought  and  trafficked  without  haste  or  din. 

There  is  no  prison-house  in  all  the  place  ; 
For  to  its  wise  inhabitants  each  sin 

Reveals  itself  so  subtly  in  the  face 

Unlighted  by  the  heavenly  beam  within, 

And  meets  such  looks  of  searching  truth  and  pity, 

That  forth  it  goes,  self-banished,  from  the  city. 

Nor  sovereignty  nor  servitude  appears  : 

Each  in  his  place  does  simply  what  he  can : 


112     THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

No  rank,  but  of  the  soul ;  but  all  careers 

Are  free  to  all,  to  woman  as  to  man, 
Of  diverse  gifts  and  attributes,  yet  peers 

Forever  in  the  sacred  social  plan. 
All  in  their  fitting  labor  find  enjoyment, 
But  deeds  of  love  are  still  their  best  employment. 

Their  busy  life  is  like  a  river  flowing 

Between  broad  banks  of  flower-embroidered  leisure  ; 
High  thoughts  attend  their  coming  and  their  going, 

And  sweet  discourse  is  their  immortal  pleasure  ; 
A  wisely  serious,  joyous  people,  knowing 

The  blessedness  of  love,  beyond  all  measure ; 
Whose  proudest  wishes  ever  at  the  seat 
Of  Justice  wait,  and  kiss  her  shining  feet. 

No  sacrifice  of  soul  and  body's  health 

To  Mammon  or  the  passions'  direful  furies ; 

Nor  poor,  nor  rich,  in  that  pure  commonwealth, 
Nor  any  need  of  wrangling  courts  and  juries. 
"  Here  good  alone,"  they  said,  "  is  done  by  stealth, 
And  only  evil  thoughts  are  held  in  duress. 

Most  blessed  are  they  who  labor  most  to  bless, 

And  happiest  hearts  reck  not  of  happiness." 

The  needful  laws,  which  in  our  lower  state 
Protect  the  many  and  confound  the  few, 

The  outward  ties  that,  binding  mate  to  mate, 
Constrain  the  false,  and  sometimes  vex  the  true, 

Have  here  no  place  ;  where  all  subordinate 
All  things  to  charity,  as  angels  do, 

And  men,  through  righteousness  and  reverence, 

Dwell  in  an  age  of  second  innocence. 

On  faint  winds  borne,  the  soul  of  odorous  balm, 

From  gardens  fountain-cooled,  breathed  everywhere ; 

Music,  commingled  with  the  jubilant  psalm 
Of  chiming  golden  bells,  rose  on  the  air ; 

And  awful  beauty  gleamed  in  godlike  calm, 

Where  ranged  statues  stood  entranced  and  bare 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD-WILL  113 

Within  the  many-niched  and  pensive  shades 
Of  pallid  alabaster  colonnades. 

And  over  all,  with  soaring  porticoes, 

And  pillared  dome,  and  glittering  pinnacles,  — 

Of  cloud,  or  marble  pure  as  sculptured  snows,  — 
And  all  its  tuneful  towers  of  marvellous  bells, 

In  frozen  beauty  and  divine  repose, 

The  phantasm  of  a  vast  cathedral  swells. 

From  far  within  the  organ's  music  pours, 

Deep-toned  as  surges  upon  thunderous  shores. 

Amidst  the  organ's  sounding  and  the  chime 

Of  bells  above,  O  strong,  and  clear,  and  solemn, 

Ascends  a  thousand-voiced  chant  sublime, 

By  thrilling  architrave  and  shivering  column ; 

And  silver  eloquence  or  golden  rhyme, 

From  living  lips  or  treasured  script  and  volume, 

Fills  up  the  pauses  of  the  chant,  and  stirs 

With  joy  the  souls  of  countless  worshippers. 

Their  prayers,  —  the  aspirations  of  the  heart ; 

Their  worship,  —  good  to  man  and  thanks  to  Heaven ; 
Religion,  —  no  sad  symbol  set  apart, 

Or  fashion  to  be  served  one  day  in  seven, 
But,  lighting  home  and  hearth  and  public  mart, 

A  constant  ray  for  guide  and  solace  given. 
All  who  throng  hither,  ravished  by  its  beauty, 
Go  forth,  diffusing  it  in  daily  duty. 

Whereat  I  cried  aloud  :  "  O  life  elysian ! 

O  mortals  !  love  and  truth  alone  are  good  ! 
Forsake  the  ways  of  falsehood  and  derision, 

And  seek  the  holy  paths  of  Brotherhood !  " 
When,  lo !  at  sound  of  my  own  voice  the  vision 

Vanished,  and  I  was  walking  in  the  wood, 
Only  in  moss  and  leaf  and  sunbeam  seeing 
That  brighter  world  which  in  my  mind  had  being. 


114    THE   EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

LOVE 

IN  sad  foreknowledge  of  man's  state,  that  he 
Might  not  despair,  and  perish  utterly, 

By  rude  distractions  hither  and  thither  hurled, 
In  the  beginning  the  dear  lords  above, 
With  infinite  compassion,  gave  him  Love  ; 

And  Love  is  the  sweet  band  that  binds  the  world. 

What  holds  the  convex  ocean  in  his  place, 
Pillars  the  starry  vault,  and  guides  through  space 

The  myriad-motioned  planets  swiftly  whirled,  — 
What  it  may  be  that  made  and  keeps  them  so 
(If  't  be  not  Love)  I  know  not :  yet  I  know 

That  Love  is  the  sweet  band  that  binds  the  world. 

Dreams,  laughter,  hope,  derision,  toil,  and  grief, 
These  are  man's  portion,  and  his  time  is  brief ; 

A  little  leaf  by  wild  winds  tossed  and  twirled ; 
In  trouble  and  in  doubt  he  draws  his  breath, 
Illusion  leads  him,  and  his  way  is  death  ; 

Yet  Love  is  a  sweet  band  that  binds  the  world. 

Strong  to  destroy,  and  very  weak  to  save 
Is  man ;  at  once  a  tyrant  and  a  slave ; 

And  ever  war's  red  banner  is  unfurled ; 
But,  Love,  since  thou  art  left  us,  all  is  well ; 
If  Love  were  banished  heaven  itself  were  hell ; 

Immortal  Love !  sweet  band  that  binds  the  world  ! 

Bitter  companions  met  me  everywhere, 
Sin-wasted  Youth,  and  Folly  with  white  hair, 

And  keen-eyed  Craft,  and  Scorn  with  sad  lip  curled, 
Sorrows,  and  masks,  and  miseries  manifold ; 
But,  "  O  my  heart !  "  I  said,  "  be  thou  consoled, 

For  Love  is  the  sweet  band  that  binds  the  world." 

Birds  build  their  nests  :  Love  taught  the  gentle  art ; 
The  babe  laughs  in  its  mother's  arms :  her  heart 

With  Love's  fresh  morning  thoughts  is  all  impearled ; 


COMMUNION  115 


Chaste  Comfort  sits  beside  the  household  hearth ; 
The  sun  with  golden  girdle  clasps  the  earth, 

And  Love  is  the  sweet  band  that  binds  the  world. 

COMMUNION 

THERE  is  peace  on  the  mountains, 

There  's  joy  in  the  glen, 
For  the  Day,  which  was  buried, 

Is  risen  again  : 
At  the  dawn,  in  cloud-raiment 

Too  dazzling  for  sight, 
Sits  the  calm,  shining  seraph, 

The  Angel  of  Light. 

And  the  air  and  the  perfume 

Of  Paradise,  fanned 
By  invisible  pinions, 

Breathe  over  the  land : 
The  lost  glory  of  Eden 

Is  flooding  the  earth  : 
'T  is  the  youth  of  Creation, 

The  world  at  its  birth ! 

Ethereal  Sabbath ! 

Day  evermore  blest ! 
I  will  walk  in  my  garden, 

Enjoying  thy  rest, 
While  the  peal  from  the  belfry 

Is  sweet  on  the  air, 
And  the  people  are  thronging 

To  sermon  and  prayer. 

The  churches  invite  me, 

Their  tables  are  spread 
With  the  brightness  of  silver, 

The  whiteness  of  bread ; 
The  golden-lipped  goblets 

Are  dusky  with  wine, 
And  I  know  the  Communion 

Of  Christ  is  divine. 


116  THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

While  to  me  the  day's  fulness 

Of  glory  is  given, 
Round,  perfect,  refulgent, 

Fresh  coinage  of  heaven, 
New  stamped  with  the  image 

And  word  of  the  Lord,  — 
Shall  not  I  to  his  service 

My  tribute  accord  ? 

I  scorn  not,  I  seek  not, 

The  wine  and  the  bread, 
Question  not  if  the  symbol 

Be  living  or  dead  : 
Christ  speaks  from  the  mountain, 

Still  walks  on  the  sea  ; 
Yonder  river  is  Jordan, 

This  lake,  Galilee ! 

Whoso  leaveth  transgression 

Is  cleansed  by  its  flood ; 
To  love,  is  his  body, 

To  serve,  is  his  blood : 
Who  walk  with  the  humble, 

The  f alien  lift  up, 
They  sit  at  his  supper, 

And  drink  of  his  cup. 

I  scorn  not,  I  take  not, 

The  wine  and  the  bread  : 
In  this  temple  of  maples 

His  table  is  spread ; 
In  this  air,  in  these  zephyrs, 

This  world  at  my  feet, 
I  have  found  a  communion 

Most  secret  and  sweet. 

All  the  lightness  and  gladness 

That  gleam  in  the  rest 
Seem  but  sparks  of  the  rapture 

That  burns  in  my  breast ; 


COMMUNION  117 


I  flash  in  the  brooklet, 
I  mount  upon  wings,  — 

'T  is  my  soul  in  the  sunbeam, 
My  spirit  that  sings. 

And  I  dream  of  a  Oneness 

Pervading  the  Whole ; 
In  all  nature,  all  nations, 

The  Soul  of  each  soul ; 
One  breath  in  all  bosoms, 

A  mystical  chain 
Whose  harmony  makes  us 

All  brothers  again. 

When  wilt  thou,  dear  Presence ! 

Whatever  thy  name ! 
Pour  out  on  the  nations 

Thy  baptism  of  flame 
(As  thou  pourest  this  sunshine), 

And  teach  us  to  heed 
The  living  communion 

Of  truth  and  of  deed  ? 

0  Love !  till  thou  make  us 

At  peace  with  our  kind, 
And  establish  thy  kingdom 

In  heart  and  in  mind ; 
Till  thy  will  in  our  wishes 

And  actions  be  done ; 
Man  gropeth  in  shadow, 

And  waits  for  the  sun. 

He  gropeth  and  creepeth, 

With  symbol  and  creed, 
Till  the  Day  of  Salvation 

Be  risen  indeed,  — 
Till  the  strong,  winge'd  Seraph, 

The  Angel  of  Light, 
Roll  the  stone  of  great  Darkness 

Away  from  the  Night. 


118    THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
SHERIFF  THORNE 

THAT  I  should  be  sheriff,  and  keep  the  jail, 
And  that  yonder  stately  old  fellow,  you  see 
Marching  across  the  yard,  should  be 

My  prisoner,  —  well,  't  is  a  curious  tale, 
As  you  '11  agree. 

For  it  happens,  we  've  been  here  once  before 
Together,  and  served  our  time,  —  although 
Not  just  as  you  see  us  now,  you  know  ; 

When  we  were  younger  both  by  a  score 
Of  years  or  so. 

When  I  was  a  wild  colt,  two  thirds  grown, 
Too  wild  for  ever  a  curb  or  rein, 
Playing  my  tricks  till  —  I  need  n't  explain ;  — 

I  got  three  months  at  breaking  stone, 
With  a  ball  and  chain. 

The  fodder  was  mean,  and  the  work  was  hard, 
And  work  and  I  could  never  agree ; 
And  the  discipline,  —  well,  in  short,  you  see, 

'T  was  rather  a  roughish  kind  of  card 
That  curried  me ! 

A  stout  steel  bracelet  about  my  leg, 
A  cannon-shot  and  chain  at  my  feet, 
I  pounded  the  stones  in  the  public  street, 

With  a  heart  crammed  full  of  hate  as  an  egg 
Is  full  of  meat. 

The  schoolboys  jeered  at  my  prison  rig ; 
And  me,  if  I  moved,  they  used  to  call 
(For  I  went  with  a  jerk,  if  I  went  at  all) 

A  gentleman  dancing  the  Jail-bird  Jig,  — 
At  a  public  ball. 

But  once,  as  I  sat  in  the  usual  place, 

On  a  heap  of  stones,  and  hammered  away 


SHERIFF  THORNE  119 

At  the  rocks,  with  a  heart  as  hard  as  they, 
And  cursed  Macadam  and  all  his  race, 
There  chanced  that  way, 

Sir,  the  loveliest  girl !     I  don't  mean  pretty ; 
But  there  was  that  in  her  troubled  eye, 
In  her  sweet,  sad  glance,  as  she  passed  me  by, 

That  seemed  like  an  angel's  gentle  pity 
For  such  as  I. 

And,  sir,  to  my  soul  that  pure  look  gave 
Such  a  thrill  as  a  summer  morning  brings, 
With  its  twitter  and  flutter  of  songs  and  wings, 

To  one  crouched  all  night  long  in  a  cave 
Of  venomous  things. 

Down  the  broad  green  street  she  passed  from  sight ; 

But  all  that  day  I  was  under  a  spell ; 

And  all  that  night  —  I  remember  well  — 
A  pair  of  eyes  made  a  kind  of  light 
That  filled  my  cell. 

Women  can  do  with  us  what  they  will : 
'T  was  only  a  village  girl,  but  she, 
With  the  flash  of  a  glance,  had  shown  to  me 

The  wretch  I  was,  and  the  self  I  still 
Might  strive  to  be. 

And  if  in  my  misery  I  began 

To  feel  fresh  hope  and  courage  stir,  — 

To  turn  my  back  upon  things  that  were, 
And  my  face  to  the  future  of  a  man,  — 
'T  was  all  for  her. 

And  that 's  my  story.     And  as  for  the  lady  ? 

I  saw  her,  —  O  yes,  when  I  was  free, 

And  thanked  her,  and  —     Well,  just  come  with  me  ; 
As  likely  as  not,  when  supper  is  ready, 
She  '11  pour  your  tea. 


120    THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  keeps  my  house,  and  I  keep  the  jail ; 

And  the  stately  old  fellow  who  passed  just  now 
And  tipped  me  that  very  peculiar  bow  — 

But  that  is  the  wonderful  part  of  the  tale, 
As  you  '11  allow. 

For  he,  you  must  know,  was  sheriff  then, 
And  he  guarded  me,  as  I  guard  him ; 
(The  fetter  I  wore  now  fits  his  limb  !)  — 

Just  one  of  your  high-flown,  strait-laced  men, 
Pompous  and  grim,  — 

The  Great  Mogul  of  our  little  town. 
But  while  I  was  struggling  to  redeem 
My  youth,  he  sank  in  the  world's  esteem ; 

My  stock  went  up,  while  his  went  down, 
Like  the  ends  of  a  beam. 

What  fault  ?     'T  was  not  one  fault  alone 

That  brought  him  low,  but  a  treacherous  train 
Of  vices,  sapping  the  heart  and  brain. 

Then  came  his  turn  at  breaking  stone, 
With  a  ball  and  chain. 

It  seemed,  I  admit,  a  sort  of  treason, 

To  clip  him,  and  give  him  the  cap  and  ball, 
And  that  I  was  his  keeper  seemed  worst  of  all. 

And  now,  in  a  word,  if  you  ask  the  reason 
Of  this  man's  fall,  — 

'T  was  a  woman  again,  —  is  my  reply. 
And  so  I  said,  and  I  say  it  still, 
That  women  can  do  with  us  what  they  will : 

Strong  men  they  turn  with  the  twirl  of  an  eye, 
For  good  or  ill. 

AT  MY   ENEMY'S   GATE 

As  I  passed  my  enemy's  gate 
In  the  summer  afternoon, 


AT  MY  ENEMY'S  GATE  121 

On  my  pathway,  stealthy  as  Fate, 

Crept  a  shadow  vague  and  chill : 
The  bright  spirit,  the  rainbow  grace 
Of  sweet,  hovering  Thought,  gave  place 
To  a  nameless  feeling  of  loss, 

A  dark  sense  of  something  ill. 

Whereupon  I  said,  in  my  scorn, 
"  There  should  grow  about  his  door 
Nothing  but  thistle  and  thorn, 

Shrewd  nettle,  dogwood,  and  dock ; 
Or  three-leaved  ivy  that  twines 
A  bleak  ledge  with  poisonous  vines, 
And  black  lichens  that  incrust 

The  scaly  crest  of  a  rock  !  " 

Then  I  looked,  and  there,  on  the  ground, 
Were  two  lovely  children  at  play ; 
The  door-yard  turf  all  around 

Was  bordered  with  pansies  and  pinks ; 
From  his  apple-trees  showered  the  notes 
Of  a  pair  of  ecstatic  throats, 
And  up  from  the  grass-lot  below 

Came  the  gossip  of  bobolinks. 

And,  behold  !  like  a  cloud,  overhead, 
Flocked  a  multitude  of  white  doves ! 
They  circled  round  stable  and  shed, 

Alighting  on  sill  and  roof  : 
All  astir  in  the  sun,  so  white, 
All  a-murmur  with  love,  the  sight 
Sent  a  pang  to  my  softening  heart, 

An  arrow  of  sweet  reproof. 

Then  I  thought  of  our  foolish  strife, 
And  "  How  hateful  is  hate  !  "  I  said. 
"  Under  all  that  we  see  of  his  life 

Is  a  world  we  never  may  know, 
With  its  sorrows,  and  solace,  and  dreams  ; 
And,  even  though  bad  as  he  seems, 


122    THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  is  what  he  is,  for  a  cause, 
And  Nature  accepts  him  so. 

"  She  gives  this  foeman  of  mine 
Of  the  hest  her  bounty  affords  ; 
Sends  him  the  rain  and  the  shine, 

And  children,  whom  doubtless  he  loves ; 
She  fosters  his  horses  and  herds, 
And  surrounds  him  with  blossoms  and  birds,  — 
And  why  am  I  harder  of  heart 

To  his  faults  than  the  daisies  and  doves  ? 

"  To  me  so  perverse  and  unjust, 
He  has  yet  in  his  uncouth  shell 
Some  kernel  of  good,  I  will  trust, 

Though  a  good  I  never  may  see. 
And  if,  for  our  difference,  still 
He  cherishes  grudge  and  ill-will, 
The  more  's  the  pity  for  him,  — 

And  what  is  his  hatred  to  me  ?  " 

So  for  him  began  in  my  heart 
The  doves  to  murmur  and  stir, 
The  pinks  and  pansies  to  start, 

And  make  golden  afternoon. 
And  now,  in  the  wintry  street, 
His  frown,  if  we  chance  to  meet, 
Brings  back,  with  my  gentler  thoughts, 

The  birds  and  blossoms  of  June. 


RACHEL  AT  THE  WELL 

BY  an  elm-tree  half  decayed, 
In  a  skeleton  of  shade 

From  the  bird-forsaken  boughs, 
With  the  melancholy  stains 
Of  a  century  of  rains, 
And  its  quaintly  mended  panes, 
Stands  the  house. 


RACHEL  AT  THE  WELL  123 

From  the  modern  street  aloof, 
It  uprears  its  olden  roof 

In  the  sleepy  summer  air ; 
And  the  shadow  falls  across ; 
And  the  sunlight  sheds  a  gloss 
On  the  patches  of  old  moss, 
Here  and  there. 

Near  the  gate  that  guards  the  lane, 
With  its  rusty  hinge  and  chain 

Hangs,  half  shut,  the  crippled  wicket. 
Lilac  clumps,  beyond  the  wall, 
Grow  neglected,  filling  all 
The  wild  door-yard  with  a  tall 
Tangled  thicket. 

There  's  a  little  path  between 
The  encroaching  ranks  of  green  ; 

Then  a  garden,  half  grown  over 
With  striped  grass  and  poppies  red  ; 
There  the  sunflower  hangs  her  head, 
And  you  scent  somewhere  a  bed 
Of  sweet  clover. 

There  is  fennel  mixed  with  phlox  ; 
And,  with  pinks  and  hollyhocks, 
Here  the  mistress  of  the  place 
In  her  lone  and  widowed  age 
Keeps  her  caraway  and  sage,  — 
Immemorial  heritage 
Of  her  race. 

At  a  pathway's  end,  a  score 
Of  brief  footsteps  from  the  door, 
Is  the  well ;  and  there,  aslant, 
Warped  and  cracked  by  sun  and  rain, 
Stands  the  well-sweep  in  the  lane, 
On  its  one  leg,  like  a  crane 
Long  and  gaunt. 


124    THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

In  her  ancient  bombazine, 
And  her  hood  of  faded  green, 

From  the  kitchen,  on  her  crutch, 
Comes  the  widow  with  her  pail ; 
In  the  hook  she  hangs  the  bail ; 
And  the  well-sweep  gives  a  wail 
At  her  touch. 

With  a  dismal,  wailing  creak, 
Like  an  almost  human  shriek, 

Down  the  slow  sweep  goes,  and  up 
With  the  wavering  pail  once  more  ; 
While,  in  yellow  pinafore, 
Runs  her  grandchild  from  the  door 
With  a  cup. 

Grandchild  did  I  say  ?     Behold ! 
Like  a  fleece  of  living  gold, 

Just  let  loose  from  fairy-land. 
Half  to  perfect  beauty  spun, 
And  half  flying  in  the  sun, 
Making  sun  and  shadow  one, 
See  her  stand  ! 

In  old  Rachel  can  there  be 
Aught  akin  to  such  as  she  ? 

Winter's  snow  and  summer's  glow ! 
Poor  old  Rachel,  bent  and  thin,  — 
Withered  cheeks  and  peakeM  chin,  — 
Has  outlived  all  other  kin 
Long  ago. 

From  the  curb,  with  many  a  groan, 
Comes  the  bucket  to  the  stone  ; 

And  her  crutch  is  in  its  place  ; 
And  now,  pausing  at  the  brink, 
For  the  elf  to  dip  and  drink, 
She,  poor  soul,  must  breathe  and  think 
For  a  space. 


RACHEL  AT  THE  WELL  125 

Lo  !  the  cloudy  years  —  they  part 
Like  a  morning  mist :  her  heart 

For  a  moment  is  beguiled 
With  bright  fancies  thronging  fast ; 
She  beholds  the  glowing  past, 
Her  own  girlish  image,  glassed 
In  the  child ! 

And  will  ever  that  sweet  elf 
Be  a  creature  like  herself, 

Bowed  with  age  and  grief  and  care  ? 
Can  such  freshness  fade  away 
To  a  phantom  of  decay,  — 
Golden  tresses  to  a  gray 
Ghost  of  hair? 

'T  was  but  yesterday  she  saw 
Her  own  grandam  go  to  draw 

Water,  with  her  pail  and  crutch ; 
And  she  wondered  to  behold 
One  so  pitifully  old !  — 
Eighty  years,  when  all  is  told, 
Are  not  much. 

Like  a  vision  of  the  dawn, 
Youth  appears,  and  youth  is  gone  : 
From  four  summers  to  fourscore 
Is  a  dream  !  'T  is  ever  so : 
Roses  come  and  roses  go, 
Roses  fade  and  roses  blow 
Evermore. 

Ruined  petals  strew  the  walk : 
Laughing  buds  are  on  the  stalk : 

Mighty  Nature  is  consoled. 
Surging  life  no  bounds  can  stay : 
Beauty  floods  the  young  and  gay, 
Life  and  beauty  ebb  away 
From  the  old. 


126    THE  EMIGRANT'S   STORY   AND   OTHER  POEMS 

We  are  figures  on  the  loom : 
Out  of  darkness,  into  gloom, 

We  but  flit  across  the  frame  ; 
And  the  gnomes  that  toil  within 
Care  not  for  the  web  they  spin : 
Ever  ending,  they  begin 
Still  the  same. 

While  sad  Rachel  dimly  peers 
Through  the  glimmering  film  of  years, 

There  the  grandchild,  ah1  aglow, 
Stooping,  dipping,  sees  by  chance 
Her  own  broken  countenance 
In  the  water  wave  and  glance 
To  and  fro. 

Tossing  arms  and  gleeful  scream 
Startle  Rachel  from  her  dream  ; 
And  as  sunshine,  in  dark  seas, 
Gilds  some  lone  and  rocky  isle, 
On  her  wrinkled  face  the  while 
Rests  a  heavenly  light,  a  smile 
Of  deep  peace. 

On  her  lone  heart's  desert  place, 
Golden  head  and  gleaming  grace 

Shed  a  radiance  warm  and  mild. 
Rachel  knows  not  age  nor  care,  — 
Life  and  hope  are  everywhere, 
As  her  soul  goes  out  in  prayer 
For  the  child. 

Little  fingers  drop  the  cup 
Which  old  Rachel  must  take  up : 

Rachel,  smiling,  stoops  with  pain ; 
While  away  the  maiden  hies, 
After  birds  and  butterflies, 
Clapping  hands  with  happy  cries, 
Down  the  lane. 


TROUTING  127 


TROUTING 

WITH  slender  rod,  and  line,  and  reel, 
And  feather  fly  with  sting  of  steel, 
Whipping  the  brooks  down  sunlit  glades, 
Wading  the  streams  in  woodland  shades, 
I  come  to  the  trouter's  paradise  : 
The  flashing  fins  leap  twice  or  thrice  : 
Then  idle  on  this  gray  boulder  lie 
My  crinkled  line  and  colored  fly, 
While  in  the  foam-flecked,  glossy  pool 
The  shy  trout  lurk,  secure  and  cool. 

A  rock-lined,  wood-embosomed  nook,  — 
Dim  cloister  of  the  chanting  brook  ! 
A  chamber  within  the  channelled  hills, 
Where  the  cold  crystal  brims  and  spills, 
By  dark-browed  ledges  blackly  flows, 
Falls  from  the  cleft  like  crumbling  snows, 
And  purls  and  plashes,  breathing  round 
A  soft,  suffusing  mist  of  sound. 

Under  a  narrow  belt  of  sky 

Great  boulders  in  the  torrent  lie, 

Huge  stepping-stones  where  Titans  cross ! 

Quaint  broideries  of  vines  and  moss, 

Of  every  loveliest  hue  and  shape, 

With  tangle  and  braid  and  tassel  drape 

The  beetling  rocks,  and  veil  the  ledge, 

And  trail  long  fringe  from  the  cataract's  edge. 

A  hundred  rills  of  nectar  drip 

From  that  Olympian  beard  and  lip ! 

And  see !  far  on,  it  seems  as  if 

In  every  crevice  along  the  cliff 

Some  wild  plant  grew  :  the  eye  discerns 

An  ivied  castle  :  feathery  ferns 

Nod  from  the  frieze  and  tuft  the  tall 

Dismantled  turret  and  ruined  wall. 


128    THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Strange  gusts  from  deeper  solitudes 
Waft  pungent  odors  of  the  woods. 
The  small,  bee-haunted  basswood-blooms 
Drop  in  the  gorge  their  faint  perfumes. 
Here  all  the  wild-wood  flowers  encamp 
That  love  the  dimness  and  the  damp. 

High  overhead  the  blue  day  shines ; 

The  glad  breeze  swings  in  the  singing  pines. 

Somewhere  aloft  in  the  boughs  is  heard 

The  fine  note  of  some  warbling  bird. 

In  the  alders  dank  with  noonday  dews 

A  restless  catbird  darts  and  mews. 

Dear  world  !  let  summer  tourists  range 
Your  great  highways  in  quest  of  change, 
Go  seek  Niagara  and  the  sea,  — 
This  little  nook  suffices  me  ! 

So  wild,  so  fresh,  so  solitary,  — 

I  muse  in  its  green  sanctuary, 

And  breathe  into  my  inmost  sense 

A  pure,  sweet,  thrilling  influence, 

A  bliss,  even  innocent  sport  would  stain, 

And  dear  old  Walton's  art,  profane. 

Here,  lying  beneath  this  leaning  tree, 

On  the  soft  bank,  it  seems  to  me, 

The  winds  that  visit  this  lonely  glen 

Should  soothe  the  souls  of  sorrowing  men,  — 

The  waters  over  these  ledges  curled 

Might  cool  the  heart  of  a  fevered  world ! 


SONG  OF  THE  FLAIL 

IN  the  Autumn,  when  the  hollows 
All  are  filled  with  flying  leaves, 

And  the  colonies  of  swallows 

Long  have  quit  the  stuccoed  eaves, 


SONG  OF  THE  FLAIL  129 

And  a  silver  mantle  glistens 

Over  all  the  misty  vale, 
Sits  the  little  wife,  and  listens 

To  the  beating  of  the  flail, 

To  the  pounding  of  the  flail,  — 
By  her  cradle  sits  and  listens 

To  the  flapping  of  the  flail. 

The  bright  summer  days  are  over, 

And  her  eye  no  longer  sees 
The  red  bloom  upon  the  clover, 

The  deep  green  upon  the  trees  ; 
Hushed  the  songs  of  finch  and  robin, 

And  the  whistle  of  the  quail, 
While  she  hears  the  mellow  throbbing 

Of  the  thunder  of  the  flail, 

The  low  thunder  of  the  flail,  — 
Through  the  amber  air,  the  throbbing 

And  reverberating  flail. 

In  the  barn  the  stout  young  thresher 

Stooping  stands  with  rolled-up  sleeves, 
Beating  out  his  golden  treasure 

From  the  ripped  and  rustling  sheaves  :  — 
O,  was  ever  knight  in  armor, 

Warrior  all  in  shining  mail, 
Half  so  handsome  as  her  farmer, 

As  he  plies  the  flying  flail, 

As  he  wields  the  flashing  flail  ? 
The  bare-throated,  brown  young  farmer, 

As  he  swings  the  sounding  flail ! 

All  the  hopes  that  saw  the  sowing, 

All  the  sweet  desire  of  gain, 
All  the  joy  that  watched  the  growing 

And  the  yellowing  of  the  grain, 
And  the  love  that  went  to  woo  her, 

And  the  faith  that  shall  not  fail, 
All  are  speaking  softly  to  her 

In  the  pulses  of  the  flail, 


130    THE  EMIGRANT'S  STORY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Of  the  palpitating  flail,  — 
Past  and  Future  whisper  to  her 
In  the  music  of  the  flail. 

In  its  crib  the  babe  is  sleeping, 

And  the  sunshine,  from  the  door, 
All  the  afternoon  is  creeping 

Slowly  round  upon  the  floor  ; 
And  the  shadows  soon  will  darken, 

And  the  daylight  soon  must  pale, 
When  her  heart  no  more  shall  hearken  ] 

To  the  tramping  of  the  flail, 

To  the  dancing  of  the  flail,  — 
Her  fond  heart  no  more  shall  hearken 

To  the  footfall  of  the  flail. 

And  the  babe  shall  grow  and  strengthen, 

Be  a  maiden,  be  a  wife, 
While  the  moving  shadows  lengthen 

Round  the  dial  of  their  life  : 
Theirs  the  trust  of  friend  and  neighbor, 

And  an  age  serene  and  hale, 
When  machines  shall  do  the  labor 

Of  the  strong  arm  and  the  flail, 

Of  the  stout  heart  and  the  flail,  — 
Great  machines  perform  the  labor 

Of  the  good  old-fashioned  flail. 

But  when,  blessed  among  women, 

And  when,  honored  among  men, 
They  look  round  them,  can  the  brimming 

Of  their  utmost  wishes  then 
Give  them  happiness  completer  ? 

Or  can  ease  and  wealth  avail 
To  make  any  music  sweeter 

Than  the  pounding  of  the  flail  ? 

O,  the  sounding  of  the  flail ! 
Never  music  can  be  sweeter 

Than  the  beating  of  the  flail ! 


BOOK  in 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHEE  POEMS 


Companions  of  my  charmed  nights  and  days, 

O  songs  !  that  on  my  solitary  ways 

Shed  glimpsing  glories,  coy,  inconstant  rays ; 

That  edged  the  dawns  with  lovelier  light  and  dew, 
Lending  the  heavens  a  yet  more  heavenly  blue, 
To  life  and  thought  a  more  ethereal  hue, 

To  men  a  more  divine  humanity  ;  — 

Go  forth,  blithe  heralds  !  blessed  if  there  be 

Souls  that  await  your  solace,  two  or  three. 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD 

A  CHRISTMAS  STORY 

PART  I 

CHRISTMAS   EVE 

ONE  snowy  Christmas  eve  it  came  to  pass, 
As  Richard  Ray  was  turning  down  the  gas 
In  the  old  book-shop,  casting  into  gloom 
The  dusty  rows  on  rows  that  lined  the  room, 
And  antique  folios  piled  on  shelf  and  floor, 
Two  strangers,  meeting,  halted  at  his  door, 
And  entered  singly. 

Short  and  slight  the  first, 

In  short  black  cloak,  with  ample  cape  reversed 
Above  his  head  to  shield  him  from  the  snow  — 
A  quaintly  improvised  capote  ;  below, 
A  strange  bright  face,  large-eyed,  intense,  peered  out : 
A  man  of  forty  years  or  thereabout. 

Lightly  the  snowflakes  from  its  folds  he  shook, 
And  from  his  cloak  produced  a  ponderous  book. 
"  A  fine  old  '  Burton ' !  I  dare  swear,"  said  he, 
"  There  's  not  another  such  this  side  the  sea. 
Since  I  am  here  to  turn  an  honest  penny, 
I  ought  to  laud  my  wares  ;  but  what  can  any 
Reasonably  fair  and  candid  villain  say 
In  praise  of  friends  he  's  plotting  to  betray  ? 
My  rare  old  '  Robert  Burton ' !  there  he  lies  !  " 
Scanning  the  shopman  with  deep  wondrous  eyes, 


134    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Full  of  unspeakable  great  thoughts.     "  How  much  ? 

This  leather  fellow  at  your  Midas-touch 

Should  turn  to  gold  ;  and  gold  I  need,  Heaven  knows !  " 

Over  the  counter,  spectacles  on  nose, 

Old  Richard  stooped :  "  Ah,  surely ;  so  it  is  ! 

I  ought  to  find  a  purchaser  for  this  :  " 

And  named  a  price  that  touched  the  stranger's  pride. 

"  What !  sell  a  lifelong  friend  so  cheap  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  I  'd  sooner  seek  an  air-hole  in  the  ice 
And  drown  myself !  "  he  vowed  —  and  took  the  price. 
Then,  with  a  smile  so  quaint  it  well  might  move 
Another's  tears  :  "  Who  knows  but  this  may  prove 
The  nucleus  of  a  fortune  ?     Thanks !  "  he  said, 
Flung  the  black  cape  once  more  above  his  head, 
And  went  his  way. 

In  dark  and  silent  mood, 
Aside,  meanwhile,  the  second  stranger  stood  : 
A  tall  fair  youth,  but  anxious-eyed  and  wan  ; 
Brows  nobly  arched,  but  all  their  freshness  gone, 
Withered  and  parched  by  fires  that  raged  within  — 
The  hidden  fires  of  suffering  and  of  sin. 

Why  he  had  entered  there  I  scarce  can  tell. 

He  neither  came  to  purchase  nor  to  sell ; 

But,  as  a  hunted  wretch,  in  desperate  strait, 

Remorse  and  terror  knocking  at  his  gate, 

Seeks  any  corner,  Maurice  Allanburn, 

Harassed,  beset,  not  knowing  where  to  turn, 

Had  paused  at  Richard's  door.     If  all  were  told, 

Perhaps  he  would  have  clutched  the  old  man's  gold. 

For  Allanburn,  a  pious  widow's  son, 

Affianced,  loved,  even  to  the  verge  had  run 

A  secret  course  of  ruinous  excess, 

Till  he  was  ready,  in  his  dire  distress, 

To  fling  himself  on  any  frantic  deed,  — 

To  mount  unbridled  violence  as  a  steed, 

And  leap  the  abyss,  or  perish  utterly. 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  135 

"  Dishonor  I  will  never  live  to  see  : 

When  all  has  failed,  then  this !  "  he  said,  and  pressed 

A  hidden  vial  sewed  into  his  vest. 
"  The  swift  news  of  my  death  shall  overtake 

The  rumor  of  disgrace,  and  kindly  break 

Their  poor  hearts  first." 

What  hope  is  there  ?     Suspected 
Already  by  the  house  he  serves,  —  detected, 
He  fears,  and  tracked  by  spies  this  night,  —  the  end 
Is  menacingly  nigh.     And  now  the  friend, 
With  whose  forged  name  he  has  been  forced  to  borrow 
Some  thousands  in  his  absence,  comes  to-morrow. 
Gold,  only  gold,  much  gold,  this  very  night, 
Or  ignominious  and  precipitate  flight  — 
Naught  else  can  save  him ;  and  he  will  not  fly. 
"  There 's  none  so  wretched,  so  ensnared,  as  I ! " 

So  Maurice  stood  and  watched,  aloof  in  shade, 
The  shopman  and  the  stranger  at  their  trade. 
"  What  furious  need  of  gold  to  such  as  he  ?  " 
He  mutters.     "  I  could  laugh  at  poverty, 
And  welcome  toil,  no  matter  where  or  what, 
With  but  a  crust  by  honest  labor  got. 
Has  he  staked  all  upon  some  reckless  game  — 
The  hopes  of  youth,  an  honorable  name  ? 
Is  life  itself,  and  more  than  life,  at  stake  — 
A  mother's  love,  a  young  girl's  heart  to  break  ? 
If  not,  let  him  be  happy." 

With  the  air 

Of  one  who  had  a  common  errand  there, 
Maurice  drew  near  and  cast  an  absent  look 
Over  the  pages  of  a  little  book 
Which  lay  upon  the  counter,  till  by  chance 
A  single  sentence  riveted  his  glance. 

Turn  back,  turn  back  ;  it  is  not  yet  too  late : 
Turn  back,  0  youth  !  nor  seek  to  expiate 
Bad  deeds  by  worse,  and  save  the  hand  from  shame 
By  plunging  all  thy  soul  into  the  flame. 


136    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

He  started,  read  again,  and  still  again, 
With  a  strange  fascination.     But  just  then  - — 

"  An  admirable  book,"  the  old  man  said ; 
"  '  Right  Thinking  and  Right  Living  : '  't  will  be  read, 
And,  I  predict,  be  famous,  centuries  hence. 
The  author  is  a  man  of  wit  and  sense  — 
Charles  Masters.     Out  of  print,  I  think,  just  now. 
Only  a  shilling.     Thank  you,"  with  a  bow. 
"  A  merry  Christmas  to  you,  and  good-night ;  " 
And  Richard  Ray  once  more  turned  down  the  light. 

And  with  a  quick  glance  up  and  down,  to  learn 
If  he  is  spied  and  followed,  Allanburn 
Goes  forth  again  into  the  whirling  storm. 

The  crowd  sweeps  by :  the  shop-girl's  flitting  form  ; 
The  brisk  mechanic  coming  from  his  work  ; 
The  prosperous  merchant,  and  the  honest  clerk  ; 
The  happy  poor  man,  with  his  pack  of  toys, 
The  Santa  Claus  of  his  own  girls  and  boys ; 
The  fatherless  apprentice  lad,  who  stops 
To  feast  his  eyes  before  the  glittering  shops  — 
No  Christmas  gifts  for  him,  but  he  can  fill 
His  dreams  with  presents,  and  be  happy  still ; 
The  sleighing  parties,  in  their  fairy  shells, 
The  muffled  drivers  and  the  jingling  bells  ; 
The  cheery  newsboy,  shouting  through  the  storm 
(Blowing  his  finger-tips  to  keep  them  warm) 
The  last  great  forgery,  the  awful  crime. 
"  Whose  turn,"  thinks  Maurice,  "  will  it  be  next  time  ?  " 
And  hears  in  fancy,  "  Shocking  suicide  !  "  — 
His  own  dread  fate  by  all  the  newsboys  cried. 

In  groups,  or  friendly  couples,  or  alone, 

Each  with  a  hope  and  purpose  of  his  own, 

He  sees  them  pass  ;  and  thinks  what  pleasant  things 

The  season  to  the  humblest  fireside  brings, 

Happy  alike  who  give  and  who  receive  ; 

And  all  his  memories  of  Christmas  eve  — 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  137 

The  expectant  stockings  by  the  chimney  hung ; 
The  sweet  conspiracies  of  old  and  young  ; 
The  Christmas  tree,  with  its  surprising  fruits  — 
Toys,  candies,  picture-books,  the  boy's  first  boots  ; 
The  days  of  innocence  and  hope  and  joy  ; 
The  fond  proud  mother,  and  the  proud  fond  boy  : 
And  many  a  fault  and  many  a  broken  vow 
Rush  over  him  ;  and  he  beholds  even  now 
In  their  suburban  home  that  mother  wait, 
And  listen  for  his  footstep  at  the  gate, 
While  with  light  hand  some  graceful  task  she  plies, 
Preparing  still  for  him  some  sweet  surprise. 
And  Maurice  stifles  in  his  throat  the  cry, 
"  There 's  none  so  wretched  and  so  base  as  I." 

Her  image  haunts  him,  waiting  there  in  vain, 
And  conscience  urges  with  its  stinging  pain  ; 
And  Maurice,  entering  at  a  well-known  door, 
As  on  like  errands,  many  a  time  before, 
Snatches  a  pen  and  sets  himself  to  write  : 
"  Mother,  do  not  expect  me  home  to-night ; 
Important  business." 

Flashing  through  the  wire, 
The  words  will  find  the  widow  by  her  fire  ; 
And  she  will  sigh,  "  His  work  is  never  done. 
Ah,  Laura,  what  a  husband  you  have  won ! 
So  faithful,  so  industrious,  so  sedate  ! 
No  wonder  he  is  pale  and  worn  of  late, 
With  so  much  business  on  his  hands  "  —  the  while 
He  hastens  to  a  bar-room  to  beguile 
His  misery  for  a  moment,  and  impart 
Fresh  resolution  to  his  faltering  heart. 

He  meets  a  friend  ;  puts  on  an  easy  air 

Of  gayety,  and  sees  through  his  despair 

A  sudden  gleam.     "  Ah,  Murdock,  you  're  my  man ! 

Lend  me  a  trifle  —  anything  you  can  ; 

For  Christmas  gifts  have  ruined  me,  and  I 

Have  still  to  purchase  "  —  forging  lie  on  lie. 


138   THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  loan  obtained,  they  chat  and  clink  their  glasses  : 
And  Maurice  notes  a  short  slight  man  who  passes, 
Advancing  to  the  bar  with  eager  pace, 
In  short  black  mantle,  with  a  strange  bright  face. 
The  wondrous  eyes  and  the  great  soul  within 
Glow  with  deep  fervor  as  he  calls  for  gin. 
He  lifts  with  nervous  hand  the  glass  and  drinks, 
And  pays  with  Richard's  coin.     And  Maurice  thinks  : 
"  Was  this  his  fearful  need,  his  mad  desire, 
To  quench  a  fiery  thirst  with  fiercer  fire  ? 
No  hope  for  him  !     But  I  may  yet  restore 
All  I  have  perilled  by  one  venture  more." 

Straight  to  a  gaming-palace  he  repairs  ; 

Climbs  with  quick  step  the  too  familiar  stairs  ; 

The  hot  hope  mounting  to  his  head  like  fumes 

Of  maddening  wine,  he  walks  the  gilded  rooms, 

The  scene  of  half  his  losses.     Seated  there, 

To  Heaven,  or  Chance,  or  Fate,  he  breathes  a  prayer, 

To  look  with  favoring  eyes  upon  his  sin  — 

The  last,  he  vows,  if  he  may  only  win. 

Not  for  his  own,  but  for  his  mother's  sake, 

For  Laura's,  he  implores  ;  and  his  last  stake 

On  the  green  cloth  with  trembling  hand  lets  fall, 

Wins  —  loses  —  wins  again  —  and  loses  all ! 

And  all  is  over.     Mother's  eyes  no  more 
Shall  greet  him  with  glad  welcome  at  the  door. 
No  more  for  him  the  rose  of  love  shall  bloom, 
And  trance  the  senses  with  its  charmed  perfume  ; 
Beauty  delight,  or  social  pleasure  blow 
The  heart's  dull  embers  to  a  heavenly  glow. 
The  world  its  myriad  industries  shall  ply, 
And  all  its  vast  concerns  full-sailed  sweep  by ; 
And  Friendship  shall  endure,  and  Hope  shall  trim 
Her  deathless  lamp,  but  nevermore  for  him. 

So  Allanburn  upon  that  Christmas  eve, 
His  ruined  youth  despairing  to  retrieve, 
Locked  in  his  melancholy  lodging,  sits 
And  meditates,  or  walks  the  room  by  fits, 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  139 

And  writes  his  everlasting  sad  farewells 

To  those  he  loves,  until  the  Christmas  bells 

Peal  joyously  upon  the  stormy  air  — 

Peal  sweet  and  clear,  and  through  the  tumult  bear 

The  golden  tidings  of  the  reign  of  Peace. 
"  For  Love  is  born  :  let  wrong  and  sorrow  cease  ! 

Sorrow  no  more  !  hope  evermore  !  "  they  ring  ; 
"  Hope  evermore !  love  evermore  !  "  they  sing, 

To  all  the  world ;  and  all  the  world  is  blest : 

To  all  the  world  but  one,  for  whom  no  rest, 

No  respite  from  despair  and  anguish,  save 

A  shameful  death  and  a  dishonored  grave. 

And  after  death  ?     He  will  not  pause  to  think  : 
Resolved  to  leap,  why  falter  on  the  brink  ? 
Folded  his  letters,  with  a  strangely  steady 
Cold  hand  he  seals  them,  and  now  all  is  ready. 
He  reaches  for  the  vial  at  his  breast, 
And  finds  instead,  forgotten  in  his  vest, 
The  little  book  placed  there  some  hours  ago. 
The  leaves  fall  open  in  his  hand,  and,  lo  ! 
Before  him,  like  a  flaming  sword  that  turns 
All  ways,  once  more  the  fiery  sentence  burns. 

Turn  back,  turn  back  ;  it  is  not  yet  too  late : 
Turn  back,  0  youth  !  nor  seek  to  expiate 
Bad  deeds  by  worse,  and  save  the  hand  from  shame 
By  plunging  all  thy  soul  into  the  flame  ! 

He  started  to  his  feet,  dashed  down  the  book, 
And  to  and  fro  across  the  chamber  took 
Quick  frenzied  strides  ;  then  hurriedly  prepared 
The  deadly  draught,  and  in  the  mirror  glared 
At  his  own  spectre,  ghastly  pale  and  grim, 
With  glass  uplifted,  coldly  mocking  him. 

"  'T  is  but  a  shadow,  and  what  more  am  I  ? 
Come,  Nothingness  !  and,  World  and  Life,  good-by  !  " 
He  raised  the  glass  —  the  shadow  did  the  same  ; 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  suddenly,  like  flame, 


140    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Leaped  forth  the  warning  to  his  inner  sight, 
In  living  letters  read  by  their  own  light : 

Turn  back,  turn  back  ;  it  is  not  yet  too  late. 

Be  it  Charles  Masters,  Providence,  or  Fate, 
Something  has  stayed  his  hand.     From  off  the  floor 
He  takes  the  little  book  and  reads  once  more. 

When  all  is  lost,  one  refuge  yet  remains, 
One  sacred  solace,  after  all  our  pains : 
Go  lay  thy  head  and  weep  thy  tears,  0  youth  ! 
Upon  the  dear  maternal  breast  of  Truth. 

Still  as  he  reads,  the  Christmas  bells  he  hears, 
And  in  their  frozen  sources  start  his  tears. 

Dismiss  the  evil  counsels  of  Deceit, 
Fling  off  the  mask,  and  downward  to  thy  feet 
Let  the  false  vesture  of  concealment  fall, 
And,  owning  all  thy  wrongs,  atone  for  all. 

At  every  word  he  feels  the  searching  steel 

That  probes  the  quivering  heart,  but  probes  to  heal. 

Every  false  path,  though  fair  and  long  it  seem, 
Leads  to  some  pit ;  and  happy  thou  mayst  deem 
Thy  wayward  youth,  whose  lesson  comes  not  late  — 
0 fortunate,  when  most  unfortunate! 

So  Allanburn,  with  soul  absorbed,  intent, 

Reads  on  ;  and  each  prophetic  word  seems  meant 

For  his  own  heart ;  such  broad  bright  wisdom  shines, 

Such  swift  conviction  lightens  in  the  lines. 

And  all  the  while  the  holy  bells  are  ringing, 

The  spirits  of  the  Christmas  bells  are  singing, 

Filling  the  stormy  world  with  hymns  of  peace. 

"  For  love  is  born  :  let  wrong  and  sorrow  cease  ! 
Sorrow  no  more  !  hope  evermore  !  "  they  ring ; 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  141 

"  Hope  evermore  !  love  evermore  !  "  they  sing. 
And  all  the  rock  of  self  is  cleft  and  shaken  ; 
And  deep  within,  sweet  blessed  springs  awaken 
Of  comfort  and  new  courage,  not  to  die 
This  coward's  death,  and  like  a  traitor  fly 
The  demons  he  has  conjured,  but  to  live, 
Strong  in  the  strength  which  only  truth  can  give. 


PART  II 

CHKISTMAS  NIGHT 

And  Maurice  lived.     And  as  a  traveller  —  lost 
By  night  upon  some  trackless  prairie,  crossed 
By  wind-driven,  leaping  flames,  while  ever  nigher 
Sweeps  the  red-maned  wild  hurricane  of  fire 
With  hoof  of  thunder  and  devouring  breath, 
And  all  the  air  is  lit  with  lurid  death  — 
Kindles  before  his  feet  the  crisp  dry  grass, 
And  burns  the  path  where  he  will  safely  pass  ; 
And  the  flames  die  behind  him,  and  the  morn 
Beholds  him  far  on  blackened  plains  forlorn : 
But  life  is  left,  and  hope  ;  so  Allanburn, 
By  frank  avowal  of  his  guilt  and  stern 
Self-condemnation,  quelled  the  rage  of  men, 
Forestalled  his  foes,  and  won  his  friends  again, 
As  't  were,  before  he  lost  them. 

Desolate 

And  long  the  labor  seemed,  to  reinstate 
Fallen  fortune  and  lost  honor  to  restore ; 
But  will  and  heart  were  strong,  and  evermore 
He  kept  the  little  volume  by  his  side  — 
His  saviour  once,  and  now  his  constant  guide 
And  solace  in  the  long  ennobling  strife, 
Incarnating  its  wisdom  in  his  life. 

To  lose  with  high  endeavor  is  to  win  ; 
And  they  but  fail  who  build  success  on  sin, 


142   THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Whose  gilded  walls  of  happiness  shall  stand 
As  baseless  palaces  on  sea-washed  sand. 

Each  day's  experience  taught  him  to  construe 
Its  old  dry  truths  with  meanings  fresh  and  new. 

Be  then  thy  conscience  as  the  eternal  rock. 
Wave-buffeted,  unmoved  by  every  shock 
Of  roaring  condemnation,  hate,  and  wrong : 
Set  thou  thereon  thy  pharos  high  and  strong. 

Thus  as  he  played  his  arduous  daily  part, 
He  learned  its  lofty  precepts  all  by  heart. 

Let  two  allied  and  equal  laws  control 
Thy  being  —  law  for  body  and  law  for  soul ; 
As  the  steam-chariot,  with  obedient  wheel, 
Flies  safely  on  its  parallels  of  steel. 

Nor  prudent  virtues  only ;  rising  thence, 
It  taught  him  faith  and  wise  beneficence. 

Religion  is  no  leaf  of  faded  green, 

Or  flower  of  vanished  fragrance,  pressed  between 

The  pages  of  a  Bible  ;  but  from  seeds 

Of  love  it  springeth,  watered  by  good  deeds. 

So  passed  the  whirling  years,  some  nine  or  ten ; 
And  now  the  Christmas  time  brings  round  again 
Its  innocent  revels,  and  draws  near  its  close, 
When  homeward  through  the  city  Maurice  goes. 

Tired  Nature  lets  her  starry  eyelid  down, 

A  wintry  quiet  falls  on  all  the  town, 

A  tingling  frost  is  in  the  silent  air, 

His  own  breath  whitens  on  his  beard  and  hair, 

As  Allanburn,  with  homeward-hasting  feet, 

Awakes  the  echoes  of  the  icy  street. 

The  shops,  on  Christmas  eve  ablaze  with  light, 
Are  closed  and  dark  on  this  cold  Christmas  night. 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  143 

But  in  the  homes  about  him,  Maurice  knows 
What  pleasure  sparkles  and  what  comfort  glows  : 
The  dance,  the  song  and  story,  told  or  sung ; 
Smiles  from  the  elders,  laughter  from  the  young ; 
Enraptured  childhood  with  its  pictured  page  ; 
The  homely  games,  uniting  youth  and  age  — 
Scenes  which  the  curtained  windows  scarce  conceal : 
And  all  the  joys  which  friends  and  kindred  feel 
In  that  glad  time  —  with  sympathizing  heart, 
He  seems  to  see  and  hear  and  take  a  part 
In  all ;  and  now  his  eager  fancy  runs 
Before  to  his  own  home  and  little  ones. 
There  waits  the  partner  of  his  home  and  life, 
Their  mother  and  (ecstatic  thought !)  his  wife, 
The  ever-faithful  Laura.     Fondly  there 
His  own  good  mother  from  her  easy-chair 
Watches  the  baby  Maurice  on  the  floor, 
Upbuilding  still,  to  see  it  fall  once  more, 
His  toppling  house  of  blocks  ;  or  turns  to  smile 
On  little  Laura  by  her  side  the  while, 
Bending  in  the  warm  light  her  glowing  head, 
Hushing  her  doll  and  putting  it  to  bed. 

The  last  house  falls  in  ruins  ;  in  the  box 

Are  packed  at  last  the  bright  new  Christmas  blocks ; 

The  doll 's  asleep,  the  cradle  put  away  ; 

And  so  the  happy  children  end  their  play. 

And  in  imagination  now  he  sees 

Two  cherubs  in  white  nightgowns  on  their  knees, 

Mingling  their  curls  before  the  mother's  chair, 

Lisping  with  dewy  lips  their  evening  prayer. 

How  sweet  the  picture  !     Suddenly  the  past 

Rises  to  dash  it ;  and  he  starts  aghast, 

Seeing  his  own  pale  spectral  image  stand 

Within  a  mocking  mirror,  glass  in  hand. 

While  thus  amid  his  blessings  he  must  think 
Of  perils  passed,  and  shudder  at  the  brink 
Of  one  black  gulf,  the  dark  remembrance  makes 
What  is  seem  brighter ;  as  he  sometimes  wakes 


144   THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

At  midnight  from  the  hideous  dream,  to  press 
More  closely  his  dear  present  happiness. 

He  hurries  on  with  eased  and  thankful  heart ; 
And  of  a  sudden  sees  before  him  start 
From  a  by-street  the  figure  of  a  child, 
A  wretched  girl  in  rags,  who  puts  up  wild 
Entreating  hands,  and  cries  out  piteously, 

"  Oh,  sir  !  who  is  there  —  who  will  come  and  see 
My  father  ?     He  is  very  sick  !     I  fear  "  — 

"  My  child,  I  will  go  with  you.     Is  it  near  ?  " 
And,  comprehending  what  she  scarce  can  say, 
He  follows  where  she  quickly  leads  the  way. 
Down  the  by-street  where  red-eyed  rum-shops  glare, 
And  with  hot  breath  defile  the  evening  air, 
Where  pines  pale  Poverty,  while  Vice  and  Crime 
With  lurid  orgies  vex  the  hallowed  time  ; 
Across  a  court  and  upward  through  the  gloom 
Of  creaking  stairs,  she  leads  to  a  cold  room, 
Hl-odored  with  foul  drugs  and  misery, 
Where  from  his  couch  a  man  starts  up  to  see 
A  stranger  come. 

"  Art  thou  the  Christ  ?  "  he  cries ; 
And  in  the  wan  white  face  and  wondrous  eyes, 
Where  now  the  awful  fires  of  fever  burn, 
Is  something  which  recalls  to  Allanburn 
Old  Richard's  book-shop  and  one  long-ago 
White  Christmas  eve.     "  Art  thou  the  Christ  or  no  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  said  Maurice,  as  amazed  he  stood, 
"  But  in  His  name  I  come  to  do  you  good." 

"  Idle  your  labor,  if  you  be  not  He. 
No  Christ  at  second-hand  will  do  for  me. 
For  know  you  who  I  am  ?  —  Sir,  a  lost  soul ! 
Hear  overhead  Jehovah's  thunder  roll ! 
It  mutters  —  do  you  mark  it  ?  —  '  Woe  !  woe  !  woe ! ' ' 

Maurice  replied  :  "  I  do  not  hear  it  so. 

It  says  you  shall  be  saved.     For  Christ  is  here  : 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  145 

In  me  He  comes  to  bring  you  help  and  cheer, 
For  you  and  for  your  child." 

"  For  her  indeed  ! 

And,  sir,  I  thank  you  ;  she  has  woful  need. 
But  I  am  driven  about  the  desert  world 
By  my  own  burning ;  hither  and  thither  whirled 
Forever,  a  wailing,  wandering  ghost  of  sin, 
Through  regions  where  Lord  Christ  has  never  been. 
And  yet  I  was  a  master  once,  and  taught 
Divine  Philosophy  ;  preached,  wrote,  and  brought 
Refreshment  to  some  hearts,  I  verily  think. 
Now  I  am  perishing  for  a  little  drink ; 
And  if  you  bear  a  charitable  mind, 
As  I  must  deem  —  for  in  your  face  I  find 
A  certain  eloquence  —  give  me  some  gin. 
You  '11  tell  me  that  has  been  my  special  sin : 
Not  so  :  it  was  the  world-consuming  thirst 
For  fresher  power  and  larger  life  which  first 
Fevered  my  soul ;  then,  in  the  sacred  name 
Of  inspiration,  sovereign  Opium  came. 
In  gorgeous  dreams  he  stalks,  the  Lord  of  Pain : 
Gin  is  a  little  page  that  bears  his  train. 
In  pomp  before  us  to  the  feast  he  goes, 
But  ever,  at  the  pageant's  sorrowful  close, 
Puts  off.  his  robes  of  fantasy  and  dream, 
And  in  his  naked  death's-head  grins  supreme. 

"  You  're  right :  that  little  hunchback  last  held  rum  ; 
That  other  bottle  smells  of  laudanum. 
To  purchase  that  my  little  girl  was  sent 
Starved  through  the  street,  and  our  last  coin  was  spent. 
Now  curse  me  for  a  fool,  and  go  your  way ; 
But  in  your  censure  don't  forget  to  say, 

*  HE  WAS  THE  BOUND  THRALL  OF  LORD  OPIUM.'  " 

"  Unhappy  man !  think  you  that  I  have  come 
With  judgment  to  condemn  you  ?     What  am  I  ?  " 
Says  Maurice,  as  he  puts  the  bottles  by, 
And  takes  the  sick  man's  hot  dry  hand  in  his. 

"  A  fellow-man,  to  whom  all  miseries 


146    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Through  his  own  sin  and  suffering  are  made  known ; 
Who  censures  no  man's  folly  but  his  own." 

"  And  have  you  kissed  Temptation  ?  in  the  cup 
Of  madness  drunk  all  hope  and  manhood  up  ? 
I  am  more  guilty ;  yet  I  am  the  same 
Who  once,  and  with  some  reason,  bore  the  name 
Of  Genius  ;  for  my  spirit,  in  my  youth, 
Explored  all  knowledge  and  conceived  all  truth. 
And  —  let  me  whisper  it  —  I  had  a  wife, 
Won  from  a  pleasant  home  and  gentle  life : 
A  violet  just  opened  in  the  air 
Of  the  sweet  May  is  not  so  sweet  and  fair. 
And  we  were  happy,  and  I  loved  her  well ; 
And  hers  was  greater  love ;  and  when  I  fell, 
She  strove  with  me,  strove  for  me,  and  forgave  me, 
And  would  have  saved,  if  mighty  love  could  save  me, 
Pleading  with  Heaven  and  men  and  me  my  cause. 
But  all  my  resolutions  were  as  straws 
That  bind  a  sleeping  lion  when  he  wakes. 
Why,  sir,  for  her  and  our  dear  children's  sakes 
To  prudence  I  a  thousand  times  was  pledged  ; 
And  with  that  venom-thought  the  tooth  is  edged 
That  gnaws  me  here.     But  now  her  sleep  is  sound, 
Under  the  buttercups,  in  the  cool  ground, 
While  I  am  burning.     Where  are  you,  my  girl  ? 
Fidelia  !  child !  my  brain  is  all  awhirl. 
I  cannot  see  you  well." 

She  nestles  near : 
"  Oh,  father  !  don't  you  know  me  ?     I  am  here." 

With  feeble  hand  he  takes  her  thin  wan  shoulder, 
And  for  an  eager  moment  seems  to  hold  her 
In  his  soul's  steadfast  gaze :  he  sees  the  sad 
And  patient  little  face  that  never  had 
Its  share  of  smiles  ;  small  features,  which  should  be 
All  freshness,  pinched  with  early  penury. 
And  eyes  —  still  like  her  mother's,  tender  blue, 
Through  every  trial  heavenly  deep  and  true 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  147 

In  their  affection  —  at  this  moment  dim 
With  piteous  tears,  not  for  herself,  but  him. 

He  held  her  there,  and  fondly  gazed,  and  smiled 
With  mournful  pathos :  "  My  poor  orphan  child ! 
You  've  had  no  parent  since  your  mother  died." 

"  Oh,  father  !  I  have  you."     But  he  replied, 
"  Your  own  good  father  died  some  years  ago. 

I  was  that  father ;  but  this  man  of  woe, 

Who  chides,  neglects  you,  makes  your  dear  heart  bleed, 

I  pray  you  think  it  is  not  I  indeed. 

A  father  should  have  cherished  this  frail  flower, 

And  nourished  it  in  gentle  sun  and  shower, 

And  kept  it,  with  a  father's  manifold 

Fond  troubles,  from  rude  winds  and  wintry  cold. 

"  I  dreamed  just  now  that  it  was  Christmas  day ; 
And  I  saw  troops  of  children  at  their  play, 
And  you  among  them,  and  your  little  brother  — 
He  had  not  died  of  hunger.     And  your  mother, 
All  hope  and  happy  smiles,  was  at  my  side. 
And  with  unutterable  love  and  pride 
We  watched  and  kept  you  ever  in  our  sight, 
And  all  was  happiness  and  warmth  and  light. 
You  were  not  cold  or  hungry  any  more ; 
You  were  like  other  children.     Then  the  roar 
Of  laughing  fiends  awoke  me,  and  I  saw 
My  darling  shivering  on  her  bed  of  straw. 
But  do  not  mind.     When  I  am  gone,  for  you, 
My  poor  Fidele,  the  vision  may  come  true. 
Then  you  '11  forgive  your  father.     Do  not  weep. 
I  am  too  weak  and  ill.     Now  let  me  sleep." 

So  saying,  he  sunk  back  upon  his  bed. 

And  Maurice  drew  the  child  aside,  and  said, 
"  Have  you  no  friends,  no  kindred,  who  should  know  ? 
Nor  other  home  to  which  you  two  can  go  ?  " 


148    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  My  mother's  friends  ;  but  they  are  far  away. 
They  would  have  had  me  go  to  them  and  stay  — 
Forsake  my  father  !  "  weeping,  she  replied. 

"  But  mother  left  him  to  me  when  she  died. 
' Be  good  to  him  ;  be  always  good  and  true,' 
That  was  her  charge,  and  so  what  could  I  do  ? 
They  call  him  wicked.     Oh,  it  is  not  so ! 
But,  good  or  wicked,  this  is  all  I  know  : 
He  is  my  father,  and  has  need  of  me." 

"  And  you  do  well,"  cries  Maurice,  cheerily. 
"  Your  little  heart  is  very  brave  and  strong. 
Now  watch  till  I  return ;  't  will  not  be  long." 

Five  minutes  takes  him  to  a  coach  ;  ten  more, 
And  he  alights  in  haste  at  his  own  door. 
There  busy  hands  in  ample  baskets  pack 
Fuel  and  food,  and  he  is  whirling  back ; 
Finds  a  physician  by  the  way  ;  and,  lo  ! 
Into  that  dismal  chamber  steals  a  glow 
Of  comfort.     Kindlings  crackle  in  the  grate ; 
The  table  beams  with  bounty,  where  of  late 
Only  the  rank-breathed  empty  bottles  stood  ; 
While  in  the  child  the  sense  of  gratitude 
For  gifts  that  seem  by  Heavenly  Mercy  sent 
Is  lost  in  wonder  and  bewilderment. 

"  Eat,  child !  "     But  now  beside  the  patient's  bed 
The  doctor  sits  ;  and  ere  she  touches  bread, 
Though  from  long  fasting  weak  in  every  limb, 
She  trembling  waits  for  words  of  hope  from  him. 

As  when  an  infant  gone  astray  has  climbed 
Some  dizzy  height,  and  any  act  ill-timed 
Of  rescuing  friends  may  cause  its  hold  to  miss, 
And  dash  it  down  the  dreadful  precipice, 
But  slowly,  step  by  step,  with  toil  and  pain, 
The  way  it  climbed  must  it  descend  again  : 
So  this  strayed  soul  has  groped  along  the  ledge 
Of  life-o'er-death,  till  at  the  very  edge 


THE   BOOK  OF  GOLD  149 

He  swoons,  suspended  in  the  giddy  air  ; 
And  only  tender  love  and  utmost  care 
And  all  the  skill  which  ever  science  gave 
Can  save  him,  if  indeed  even  such  can  save. 

The  wise  physician,  seated  at  his  task  — 

His  kindly  features  moulded  to  a  mask 

Of  calm  grave  thought,  through  which  no  faintest  ray 

To  kindle  expectation  finds  its  way  — 

Counts  pulse,  and  ponders  symptoms,  and  prepares 

The  patient's  powders,  while  the  patient  glares 

Delirious  ;  then  takes  leave  ;  but  at  the  door, 

Seeing  the  child's  eyes  question  and  implore, 

Puts  off  the  doctor  and  resumes  the  man, 

And  speaks  what  comfortable  words  he  can. 

And  now  Fidele  is  pacified  and  fed. 
She  sleeps,  and  Maurice  watches  in  her  stead 
Through  weary  hours ;  till,  just  as  morning  breaks, 
The  patient  from  a  fitful  slumber  wakes, 
But  cannot  move  for  utter  weariness. 
"  Fidele  !  "  he  whines,  in  querulous  distress  ; 
Sees  the  strange  watcher  there,  and  at  the  sight 
Gropes  feebly  in  his  memories  of  the  night 
To  find  again  the  half-remembered  face. 

"  Let  the  child  rest ;  command  me  in  her  place," 
Says  Maurice,  pillowing  the  patient's  head. 

"  Something  I  do  recall,"  the  sick  man  said. 

"  But  solve  me  now  the  riddle  if  you  can  : 
You  are,  I  deem,  a  prosperous  gentleman ; 
I,  the  forlorn  self-ruined  wretch  you  see, 
Not  worth  your  thought ;  and  yet  you  waste  on  me 
Your  time  and  thought.     We  Ve  met,  I  think,  before  ? 
Nay,  speak,  or  I  shall  only  talk  the  more." 

"  You  are  a  man  —  enough  for  me  to  know 
I  can  relieve  a  fellow-mortal's  woe. 


150    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  you  are  more  to  me  than  common  men. 
Once,  twice,  indeed,  we  've  met ;  "  and  how  and  when 
(To  soothe  his  patient)  AUanburn  relates. 
"  That  night  the  subtle  circles  of  our  fates 
Appeared  to  touch  ;  so  that  in  memory 
I  've  seen  you  still,  and  wondered  what  might  be 
Your  fortunes  since.     Dark  as  they  were  that  night, 
My  own  were  in  a  far  more  evil  plight. 
And  I  was  saved  —  almost  by  chance  it  seemed  — 
So  mere  a  chance  that  often  I  have  dreamed 
It  was  your  path  of  life,  not  mine,  it  crossed, 
And  you  were  saved  instead,  and  I  was  lost." 

The  other  sighed,  "  No  chance  !     Our  destiny, 
With  its  heaven-reaching  branches,  is  a  tree 
Which  grows  from  little  seeds  in  our  own  hearts ; 
The  elements  strengthen,  bend,  or  rend  the  parts, 
As  they  are  sound  or  flawed.     My  will  was  weak, 
The  very  pith  and  root  of  all.     But  speak  !  " 

"  What  was  my  chance  or  providence  ?     A  book, 
Which  from  the  counter  carelessly  I  took  — 
A  little  faded  volume,  thumbed  and  old, 
But  to  my  life  and  need  a  BOOK  OF  GOLD." 

The  sick  man  groaned.     "  Talk  not  of  books  to  me  ! 
If  they  could  save,  be  sure  I  should  not  be 
This  burnt-out  wick  ;  but  a  lamp  glorified, 
Set  in  the  windows  of  the  Lord,  to  guide 
Benighted  souls,  to  cheer  the  tempest-tossed, 
And  show  the  Way  of  Life,  which  I  have  lost." 

Quoth  AUanburn  :  "  All  that  you  say,  and  more, 
My  author  in  his  book  has  said  before. 

"  Good  books  are  pearl  and  gold  ;  yet  not  of  them 
Is  builded  bright  the  New  Jerusalem  : 
Hear  thou  thyself  the  Voice  the  prophets  heard, 
And  shape  in  thine  own  life  the  shining  Word. 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  151 

"  But  now,  we  talk  too  much,  and  you  must  rest." 

In  the  pale  face  a  vivid  gleam  expressed 
Surprise,  hope,  doubt.     "  I  had  wellnigh  forgot 
That  such  a  book  was  written.     Is  it  not 
<  Right  Thinking  and  Right  Living '  ?  " 

Maurice  cried, 

"  You  know  it !  "     And  a  look  almost  of  pride 
And  joy  into  the  strange  bright  visage  stole. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  if  it  has  helped  a  single  soul ! 
Enough,  O  friend  !     But  you  are  here  to  gain 
A  deeper  lesson  than  its  leaves  contain ; 
Since  he  whose  words  can  save,  himself  may  be 
Among  the  lost." 

"  Charles  Masters  !  " 

"  I  am  he  : 

Be  not  too  much  amazed  and  grieved  ;  for  I 
Am  happy,  and  contented  now  to  die." 

"  Dear  soul !  and  have  I  sought  you  far  and  near," 
Cries  Allanburn,  "  at  last  to  find  you  here  ? 
My  benefactor !     'T 'is  not  yet  too  late  ! 
All  that  I  have,  life,  happiness,  estate, 
I  owe  to  you  ;  and,  help  me,  Heaven  !  I  yet 
Will  pay  some  portion  of  the  precious  debt 
In  love  and  service  to  your  child  and  you." 

"  I  am  repaid,"  Charles  Masters  said,  and  drew 
A  long  deep  sigh  of  peace.     "  You  bring  me  rest, 
And  almost  make  me  feel  that  I  am  blessed. 
Cherish  my  child  —  she  has  a  heart  of  gold. 
But  all  your  prayers  and  patience  cannot  hold 
This  bruised  reed  up,  and  make  it  grow  again. 
Seek  not  to  keep  my  memory  among  men, 
But  set  these  warning  words  above  my  grave : 
'  OTHERS  HE  SAVED,  HIMSELF  HE  COULD  NOT  SAVE/  " 


152        THE   BOOK   OF   GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE   WRECK   OF  THE   FISHING-BOAT 
PART  I 

CAPE  PORPOISE  is  a  little  fishing  town  : 

Where  the  tide  billow,  which  the  Atlantic  rolls 

Foaming  on  reef  and  beach,  glides  rippling  down 
Through  sinuous  creeks  and  over  shining  shoals, 

Floating  a  few  light  craft,  upon  the  brown 
Impassive  ooze  careened  with  slanting  poles, 

Or,  refluent,  leaves  all  slack  and  bare  again,  — 

It  nestles  in  the  rocky  coast  of  Maine. 

In  their  unchanging,  ancient  village  hived  — 
Few  drones  in  that  compact  community  — 

The  hardy  fisher-folk  have  wived  and  thrived, 
Drawing  a  scant  subsistence  from  the  sea, 

Through  many  generations  ;  and  survived 
Tempest  and  wreck,  and  dire  calamity 

Of  war  —  French,  English,  Indian  —  and  embargo, 

And  British  cruisers  catching  crew  and  cargo. 

Few  drones,  I  said :  there  will  be,  now  and  then, 
Some  good-for-nothing  idlers  found  amid 

The  best  communities  of  bees  and  men ; 
Nor  could  Cape  Porpoise  ever  quite  get  rid 

Of  such  unthrifty  fellows  as  Wild  Ben  — 
A  youth  of  shining  talents,  which  he  hid 

In  Scriptural  earth  of  self-indulgent  sloth  — 

Under  a  punch-bowl  or  a  tavern  cloth. 

A  natural  boatman  —  nimble  with  the  sail, 

The  oar,  the  seine ;  no  lad  more  skilled  than  he 

To  calk  a  leak,  splice  rope,  or  brave  the  gale : 
A  very  imp  he  seemed  of  the  wild  sea. 

Handy  to  help,  yet  never  within  hail 

When  needed  most ;  but  he  was  sure  to  be 

Off  with  his  cronies  somewhere,  getting  drunk 

Over  in  Biddeford  or  Kennebunk. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  FISHING-BOAT  153 

Ben's  father  was  a  fisherman  —  Job  Nelson. 

He  set  the  scapegrace  to  repair,  one  day, 
The  foremast  step  —  or  socket  on  the  kelson  — 

Of  their  small  craft,  the  Lark,  moored  in  the  bay. 
"  Do  it  right  now,"  he  said,  "  and  do  it  well,  son, 

Or  the  next  blow  will  bear  it  quite  away. 
'T  is  wrenched  and  parted ;  and  I  'm  in  no  hurry 
To  risk  dismasting  in  another  flurry. 

"  I  '11  put  that  catch  of  codfish  on  the  flakes ; 

Then  you  must  help  me  underrun  the  trawl." 
Ben  from  the  shelf  the  saw  and  hatchet  takes, 

When  round  the  cove  he  hears  a  comrade  call ; 
To  go  with  whom  his  task  he  soon  forsakes, 

Careless  who  mends  the  boat  or  helps  to  haul 
The  lines  that  night.     Hatchet  and  saw  are  left 
Upon  the  shore,  hid  in  a  rocky  cleft. 

The  fish  were  put  upon  the  flakes  to  dry ; 

Then  Job,  all  ready  for  the  voyage,  looked  round, 
And  searched  the  little  seaport  low  and  high, 

And  called  ;  but  Ben  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 
'T  was  only  the  wild  loon  that  laughed  reply, 

Over  by  Redin's  Island  —  dreary  sound  ! 
That  far,  half-human  call  which  sometimes  mocks 
The  seeker  for  some  lost  one  mid  the  rocks. 

Ben's  father  stormed,  and  gave  him  up  at  last, 

But  would  not  leave  the  trawl  another  day. 
The  afternoon  and  tide  were  going  fast ; 

The  Lark  would  soon  be  stranded  where  she  lay. 
"  I  wonder  did  the  rogue  secure  the  mast  ? 

Whether  he  did  or  not,  I  cannot  stay  j 
I  '11  take  the  tools  and  mend  the  step  myself, 
If  need  be."     But  the  tools  had  left  the  shelf. 

Job  Nelson  raved,  and  on  the  absent  one 

Volleys  of  violent  invective  poured. 
But  goodwif e  Jane,  who  loved  her  wayward  son, 

Stood  pale  and  quiet  while  her  husband  roared ; 


154    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  mildly  said,  "  I  'm  sure  he  must  have  done 

The  task  you  bid,  and  left  the  tools  aboard. 
So  say  no  more.     I  always  like  to  go 
And  help  you  with  the  trawl,  and  that  you  know." 

The  young  ones  were  just  coming  in  from  school  — 
A  girl  of  six,  two  boys  of  eight  and  ten  ; 

A  babe  there  was  beside  —  as  seemed  the  rule 
In  every  house  —  of  that  sweet  season  when 

Babes  first  begin  to  push  a  chair  or  stool : 
A  little  brood  much  younger  than  Wild  Ben. 

(Three  others  in  the  rocky  hills  were  laid, 

"Where  you  would  think  a  grave  could  scarce  be  made.) 

The  mother  soon  their  simple  supper  spread, 
And  nursed  her  babe,  and  hastened  to  prepare 

For  sea,  with  more  of  pleasure  than  of  dread, 
And  gave  the  infant  to  the  others'  care, 

And  left  them  with  their  bowls  of  milk  and  bread, 
And  started ;  but  went  back  and  kissed  them  where, 

Grouped  in  the  open  cottage  door,  they  stood 

To  see  her  off,  and  charged  them  to  be  good,  — 

Again,  and  still  again  —  she  knew  not  why ; 

But  as  she  quickly  turned  to  go,  there  gushed 
A  sudden  tender  torrent  to  her  eye ; 

And  over  her  a  fearful  feeling  rushed, 
As  if  some  great  calamity  were  nigh, 

And  that  dear  babe  might  nevermore  be  hushed 
And  comforted  on  her  warm  breast  at  night ; 
•    But  soon  she  laughed  such  fancies  out  of  sight. 

"  You  '11  see  us  coming  with  the  tide  at  dark," 
She  promised  them,  and  hurried  to  the  pier, 

Where  Job  already  had  his  little  bark ; 

And  down  the  steep  wharf-ladder  to  the  sheer 

Groped  with  slow  feet,  and  stepped  aboard  the  Lark  ; 
Then  listened,  as  they  pushed  away,  to  hear 

The  happy  children  shouting  from  the  door, 

And  watched,  until  her  home  was  seen  no  more. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  FISHING-BOAT  155 

The  breeze  was  fair,  the  passage  smooth  and  swift ; 

And,  huddled  in  the  doorway,  side  by  side, 
The  children  saw  the  little  vessel  drift 

Among  the  islands  scattered  far  and  wide, 
Where  broke  the  sea  through  many  a  foaming  rift  — 

A  feather  wafted  by  the  wind  and  tide 
Away,  away,  to  veer  at  last  from  sight 
Bound  Folly  Island,  by  Goat  Island  Light. 

The  children  ate  their  meal  of  milk  and  bread, 

And  played  at  wreck  and  raft  with  bowl  and  spoon ; 

And  Job,  the  oldest,  put  the  babe  to  bed ; 
Then,  as  the  slow,  full-freighted  afternoon 

Went  down  the  west  with  wake  all  fiery  red, 
And  over  isle  and  inlet  sailed  the  moon, 

They  waited  for  their  parents,  anxious-eyed, 

To  see  them  coming  with  the  coming  tide. 

Pulse  of  the  world !  hoarse  sea  with  heaving  breath, 
Swaying  some  grief's  great  burden  to  and  fro  ! 

Fierce  heart  that  neither  hears  nor  answereth, 
Sounding  its  own  eternal  wail  of  woe  ! 

Punctual  as  day,  unheeding  life  or  death, 

Wasting  the  ribs  of  earth  with  ceaseless  throe ; 

Remorseless,  strong,  resistless,  resting  never, 

The  tides  come  in,  the  tides  come  in  forever ! 

The  tide  came  in,  and  flooded  creek  and  cove, 

And  spread  on  marsh  and  meadow  far  away 
Under  the  moon ;  and  many  a  dim  sail  hove 

Softly  in  sight,  and  gleamed  along  the  bay, 
And  folded  its  pale  wing,  no  more  to  rove  ; 

And  hearths  were  bright,  and,  blithe  from  breeze  and  spray 
And  chasing  breakers,  fathers,  sons,  and  brothers 
Went  home  to  happy  children,  wives,  and  mothers. 

The  tide  came  in,  and  shoulder-deep  the  pier 

Wallowed  in  waves  that  lapped  and  leaped  and  glistened ; 

And  still,  to  see  one  longed-for  sail  appear, 

The  lonesome  little  watchers  gazed  and  listened 


156    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Until  their  fluttering  hearts  were  filled  with  fear, 

And  beat  against  the  bars  like  birds  imprisoned. 
Their  parents  came  not  with  the  coming  tide  ; 
And  now  the  hungry  babe  awoke  and  cried. 

The  others  cried  for  sympathy  or  fright, 

Till  little  Job  assumed  a  manly  air, 
And  brushed  his  tears,  and  said,  "  The  moon  is  bright ; 

We  '11  hurry  to  the  wharf  to  meet  them  there ; 
I  'm  sure  by  that  time  they  will  be  in  sight. 

I  '11  carry  Baby  ;  Willie,  you  '11  take  care 
That  Sissy  does  n't  fall.     Of  course,  you  know, 
It 's  the  big  catch  of  fish  that  keeps  them  so." 

He  soothed  the  babe,  and  tied  his  sister's  hood, 

And  led  them  forth  with  childish  words  of  cheer : 
"  Don't  cry  !  you  know  she  told  us  to  be  good !  " 

Then  to  the  wharf,  shuddering  with  cold  and  fear. 

The  tide  was  in  ;  the  steep  wharf-ladder  stood 

Plunged  in  the  deep  wide  flood,  which  lashed  the  pier, 

And  brimmed  the  bay,  and  gleamed  among  the  isles, 

And  silvered  shores  and  shoals  for  glittering  miles. 

But  over  all  that  bright  expanse  no  sail. 

The  wind  had  freshened,  and  was  blowing  strong ; 
And  well  those  little  ones  might  quake  and  quail, 

Harking  to  catch  their  father's  cheery  song, 
To  hear  the  waves  instead,  and  rising  gale  : 

No  sound  beside,  but  evermore  the  long 
Roll  of  the  thundering  breakers  far  away. 
The  night  was  chill :  it  was  the  month  of  May. 

They  find  a  skiff  careened  upon  the  pier, 
And  into  this  the  trembling  wretches  creep, 

And  cuddle  close,  eager  for  warmth  and  cheer, 
And  still  their  long  and  lonesome  vigil  keep, 

Scanning  the  troubled  waters  far  and  near, 
Till  all  but  Job  have  cried  themselves  to  sleep. 

He  wraps  his  shivering  sister  in  his  coat, 

Then  falls  asleep  himself,  there  in  the  boat. 


THE   WRECK  OF   THE  FISHING-BOAT  157 

PART  II 

And  now,  half  sobered  from  his  late  carouse, 
Wild  Ben  went  slowly  sauntering  up  the  street. 

Thinking  of  home  and  wrath  with  sullen  brows, 
He  sidled  to  the  door  with  stealthy  feet, 

But  stared  amazed  to  find  an  empty  house  — 
A  lamp  still  burning  in  the  window-seat, 

Which  Job  had  set,  upon  the  seaward  side, 

To  cheer  his  parents  coming  with  the  tide. 

Ben  glowered  and  growled,  and  searched  both  house  and  shed, 

Then  stood  and  studied,  in  a  sort  of  maze, 
The  vacant  cradle  and  each  empty  bed. 

The  lamp  flame,  flickering  to  a  dying  blaze, 
Leaped,  quivered,  vanished,  and  the  moon  instead 

Poured  through  the  quiet  panes  its  haunting  rays, 
While  in  his  flesh  and  stirring  hair  the  youth 
Felt  a  cold,  curdling  horror  of  the  truth. 

He  from  the  cupboard  brought  a  loaf  and  bowl, 
And  tried  to  eat ;  and  cursed  and  swore  a  little, 

To  still  the  rising  terrors  of  his  soul ; 

But  strove  in  vain  to  solve  the  fearful  riddle. 

Then  like  some  conscious  murderer,  he  stole 
From  the  deserted  house.     It  was  the  middle 

Of  the  dread  night :  the  village  slept ;  afar 

The  savage  ocean  roared  on  reef  and  bar. 

The  smacks,  sails  furled,  and  headed  all  one  way, 
Veered  on  the  tide  in  the  strong  wind  which  drove 

Now  tempest-like  athwart  the  little  bay  : 
Only  the  Lark  was  absent  from  the  cove, 

And,  tethered  to  the  buoy  where  late  she  lay, 
The  dory  reared  and  champed,  as  if  it  strove, 

Frighted,  to  fly.     Ben  seemed  to  see  and  hear 

In  every  object  sight  or  sound  of  fear. 

Then  all  his  faults,  the  counsels  he  had  spurned, 

Thronged  on  his  heart,  like  fiends,  to  chide  and  mock. 


158   THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  one  bright  eye  of  the  lone  light-house  burned 
Far  off.     What  does  it  see  on  wave  or  rock, 

Or  in  the  burying  surf  ?     The  tide  has  turned  ; 
White  in  the  moon,  the  wild,  fleet  waters  flock, 

From  shoals  and  creeks,  back  to  their  deep  sea  caves  — 

Realm  of  strewn  wrecks  and  cold,  uncovered  graves. 

In  his  strange  horror  and  bewildering  fear 
He  seeks  the  landing,  and  discovers  there, 

In  the  old  boat  abandoned  on  the  pier, 

A  living  heap  —  Job's  face,  with  tangled  hair, 

And  in  the  moonlight  on  that  face  a  tear  ; 
He  notes,  beside,  Job's  little  arms,  half  bare, 

And,  closely  nestled,  covered  by  his  coat, 

The  others,  all  asleep  there  in  the  boat. 

He  saw  the  small  breasts  heave  ;  he  felt  them  breathe  : 
A  shadow  in  the  moonlight,  dark  and  dumb, 

He  watched  them  for  a  moment  from  beneath 

Remorseful  brows,  while  every  sense  seemed  numb 

With  inward  agony  ;  then  gnashed  his  teeth. 

Job  staggered  up  —  "  Oh,  father,  have  you  come  ?  " 

But  no  kind  father's  eyes  looked  down  on  him  ; 

Only  his  brother  stood  there,  pale  and  grim. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  so  late  at  night  ? 

Where  's  mother  ?  "     "  Why,  she  went  instead  of  you. 
Oh,  Ben,  I  hope  you  did  the  mending  right ! 

The  tools  were  gone,  and  what  could  father  do  ?  " 
Ben  gave  a  groan ;  recoiling  with  affright, 

The  little  boatman  wakes  his  little  crew ; 
And  Ben,  arousing  from  his  stupor,  tries 
To  quiet  them  with  well-intended  lies. 

He  launched  a  skiff,  and,  cursing  smack  and  trawl, 
Leaped  in,  and  sent  the  trembling  wretches  home, 

And  rowed  till  on  the  outmost  island  wall 
He  saw  the  gathering  surges  burst  and  comb, 

Loud-booming,  and  the  angered  sea  was  all 
One  awful  waste  of  tumbling  waves  and  foam : 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  FISHING-BOAT  159 

No  sail,  nor  any  lonesome  thing  afloat, 
Save  him,  in  his  own  tide-borne,  tossing  boat. 

Stoutly  he  pulled,  and  strained  his  eyes  across 

The  running  surf  and  restless  rolling  sea, 
By  Vaughan's  low  isle  and  lonely  Albatross ; 

But  only  rock  and  ocean  can  he  see. 
Tumultuously  the  hoary  waters  toss 

Their  mighty  plumes,  careering  endlessly ; 
And  the  beaked  breakers  with  loud  rustling  wings 
Flap  on  the  reef  like  wild,  infuriate  things. 

Ah  many  a  time  as  to  a  mad  carouse 

Had  he  rowed  forth,  to  feel  the  rush,  the  thrill, 

The  towering  surge  come  tumbling  on  his  bows ; 
The  boat,  held  firm  by  its  bold  rider's  will  — 

The  mind's  electric  presence,  which  endows 

Even  wood  with  life  and  senseless  things  with  skill  — 

Rising  triumphant,  flinging  off  the  wave ; 

Man  the  sole  master,  even  the  sea  his  slave ! 

But  now  there  is  a  fury  in  his  brain  : 

The  frolic  purpose  and  the  joy  are  gone, 
And  but  the  practised  power  and  will  remain. 

Brows  drenched  with  spray  and  sweat,  wild-eyed  and  wan, 
He  mounts  the  surges,  resolute  to  gain 

The  open  sea,  and  to  the  trawl  pulls  on ; 
Finds  the  long  line  of  tossing  floats  still  there, 
But  living  object  never  anywhere. 

But  what  is  this  the  slow  great  seas  uplift, 

Weltering,  low-sunken,  glimmering  in  the  dim 

Sad  rays  of  the  drooping  moon  ?     A  wreck  adrift, 
With  heaving,  wave-washed  side  turned  up  at  him, 

And  through  the  gaping  ribs  a  ghastly  rift : 

Some  foundered  boat  capsized.     His  senses  swim ; 

Madly  he  gazes  round  ;  on  every  side 

Rolls  billowy  desolation  wild  and  wide. 


160    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

PART  III 

'T  was  now  some  hours  since  Job  his  lines  had  hauled, 
Secured  the  captured  fish,  and  dropped  once  more 

His  freshly  baited  hooks  ;  while  Jane,  installed 
As  mate  to  her  brave  captain,  prompt  with  oar, 

Boat-hook,  or  bait  to  help  him,  scarce  recalled 
The  doubts  that  shook  her  at  the  cottage  door. 

The  tiller  grasped,  the  wind  abeam,  the  sails 

Fill,  strain,  swell  proudly,  and  the  rushing  rails 

Sweep  through  the  water,  bowing  to  the  bubbles, 
Upon  the  cheery  homeward  track  at  last. 

The  lucky  fisherman  forgets  his  troubles, 
And  hopefully  he  eyes  the  swaying  mast 

And  sunlit  canvas,  as  the  Lark  redoubles 
Her  wingdd  speed  in  the  increasing  blast ; 

And  the  glad  mother  turns  across  the  foam 

Her  yearning  gaze  with  tender  thoughts  of  home. 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  pleasant  talk,  they  feel 
A  sudden  shock,  a  lurch,  and  hear  a  crash. 

The  staggering  foremast,  parted  from  the  keel, 
Drops  slantwise  down,  and  tears  a  hideous  gash 

In  the  Lark's  side,  through  which  the  waters  steal, 
Rising  about  their  feet  with  ominous  splash, 

As  pitching  heavily  she  lies,  brought  to, 

And  sinking,  spite  of  all  that  Job  can  do. 

And  so  the  worst  —  far  worse  than  aught  he  feared  — 
Had  come  to  pass.     Too  terrified  to  speak, 

Jane  bailed  the  gushing  water,  while  he  cleared 
The  wreck,  and  strove  to  stanch  the  dreadful  leak. 

Still,  as  the  cruel  ice-cold  waters  neared 

Her  knees,  her  waist,  she  did  not  start  nor  shriek, 

But  bailed  amidst  the  fish  that  swam  about, 

Till  a  great  wave  washed  in,  and  they  swam  out. 

She  saw  the  escaping  fish  as  in  a  dream, 
And  frantically  still  the  bucket  plied. 


THE   WRECK  OF  THE   FISHING-BOAT  161 

But  now  the  vessel,  settling  on  her  beam, 

Turned  to  the  sky  her  glistening,  splintered  side : 

This  too  she  noticed  ;  and  in  that  supreme 

Dread  moment  thought  of  many  things  beside  — 

Her  home,  her  babes,  three  little  hill-side  graves, 

And  her  and  Job  there  struggling  in  the  waves. 

Fast  to  the  wreck  they  cling ;  but  every  sea 

Deluges  them  with  waters  deadly  cold. 
They  sink,  they  rise,  they  gaze  despairingly 

Round  the  wide  waste  of  waters  to  behold 
Some  sail ;  but  only  far-off  sails  they  see, 

Faintly  suffused  with  pale  ethereal  gold. 
Across  the  fluctuating  gilded  swells, 
The  sun  is  setting  over  York  and  Wells. 

"  Job,  are  we  lost  ?  "  said  Jane.     "  Cling  for  your  life  !  " 
He  cried.     "  1 11  save  you."     Round  the  sunken  deck 

He  swam,  and  cut  the  halyards  with  his  knife, 
And,  working  in  the  water  to  his  neck, 

Lashed  spar  to  spar ;  then  caught  his  sinking  wife 
Just  as  a  great  wave  sv/ept  her  from  the  wreck, 

And  drew  her  forth,  half  drowned,  with  streaming  hair, 

Upon  his  little  raft,  and  bound  her  there  — 

On  the  drenched  canvas  stretched,  a  dripping  heap. 

And  still  the  sails  descried  were  few  and  far. 
And  so  the  day  went  down  upon  the  deep, 

And  the  moon  shimmered,  and  the  light-house  star 
Pencilled  its  ruddy  beam  across  the  sweep 

Of  wandering  waters  ;  while,  with  breast  to  spar, 
Shaping  his  course  to  reach  the  nearest  shore, 
Job  swam,  and  pushed  his  laden  raft  before. 

"  Oh,  Job,"  said  Jane,  "  I  am  so  cold  !     I  ache 

In  every  bone.     Dear  Job,  if  I  should  die, 
Be  gentle  with  the  children  for  my  sake. 

Oh,  now  I  think,  I  wish  to  live,  that  I 
May  do  my  duty  better.     If  you  take 

Another  wife,  I  hope  that  she  will  try 


162    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

To  love  our  dear  ones,  and  be  kind  to  you. 
Forgive  poor  Ben  for  what  he  failed  to  do." 

"  Don't  talk  of  dying  and  of  other  wives 

Quite  yet,"  cries  Job ;  "  I  '11  get  you  safe  to  land." 

But,  terribly  and  strongly  as  he  strives, 

Not  all  the  might  of  manhood  can  withstand 

The  wrenching  seas  and  sharp  cross-wind  that  drives 
The  raft  away  towards  some  more  distant  strand. 

Still,  for  a  while  he  bravely  struggles,  loath 

To  quit  the  raft,  which  will  not  bear  them  both. 

Off  the  dim  cape  of  moonlit  Arundel l 

Slowly  they  drift,  scarce  fifty  rods  away, 
Soon  to  be  swept  by  wind  and  drenching  swell 

Helplessly  on,  across  an  open  bay, 
As  Job,  in  fierce  despair,  foresees  too  well. 

"  Oh,  Jane,"  he  says,  "  there  is  no  other  way, 
But  I  must  leave  you.     I  will  swim  ashore 
For  help  —  God  help  us  !  "     He  could  say  no  more. 

"  I  thought  of  that.     If  you  are  sure  to  reach 

The  rock  and  save  yourself,  I  pray  you,  go. 
But,  oh,"  she  said,  "  for  their  sake,  I  beseech, 
Take  care.     The  sea  is  terrible,  you  know, 
On  those  sharp  ledges."     "  There  's  a  pebbly  beach 

Close  in  the  point.     I  '11  rest  a  minute.     Oh, 
Now  must  I  leave  you  ?  "     "  Touch  me  first,"  said  Jane, 
"  Dear  Job,  for  we  may  never  meet  again." 

1  Arundel  is  the  name  under  which  the  township  of  Kennebunkport  (in  York 
County,  Maine)  was  incorporated  in  1717,  and  by  which  it  was  known  for  over  a  hun 
dred  years ;  when  it  was  discarded,  and  for  fifty  years  more  disappeared  from  the 
vocabulary  of  the  coast.  It  has  recently  been  restored,  however,  to  the  broad,  green, 
wood-crested  promontory  —  now  a  favorite  summer  resort  —  lying1  immediately  east 
of  the  mouth  of  the  Kennebunk  River,  and  called  Cape  Arundel  when  it  is  not  called 
Ocean  Bluff.  The  "  open  bay  "  alluded  to  in  this  stanza  is  Wells  Bay.  The  "  long 
dark  river  pier,"  mentioned  farther  on,  is  the  immense  granite  breakwater  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Kennebunk.  "  Old  Fort  Beach  "  is  on  Cape  Arundel,  not  far  from  the 
"  Spouting  Rock :  "  it  is  a  natural  sea-wall  of  pebbles  and  smooth  stones,  from  which 
many  a  ship  has  been  ballasted.  The  village  of  Cape  Porpoise  is  near  the  other  — 
that  is  to  say,  the  eastern  —  extremity  of  the  township  of  Kennebuukport,  and  is  one 
of  the  oldest  settlements  on  the  coast. 


THE   WRECK  OF  THE  FISHING-BOAT  163 

So  they  touched  hands  upon  the  cold  wet  mast 
With  quick,  convulsive  pressure,  and  with  wan, 

Strange  faces  in  the  moonlight  looked  their  last, 
And  said  their  last  farewells  —  and  Job  was  gone : 

Forth  from  her  side  a  slow  dark  object  passed, 
Tossed  by  the  sweeping  waves ;  and,  drifting  on, 

She  watched  him  from  her  raft,  and  held  her  breath, 

And  prayed,  "  Oh,  save  him,  save  him,  Lord,  from  death  !  " 

She  watched  him  sink,  and  mount,  and  disappear  ; 

Then  strained  each  aching  sense  to  see  him  gain 
The  gray  grim  shore,  his  signal  shout  to  hear, 

Forgetting  her  own  peril  and  sharp  pain  ; 
Broke  from  her  bonds,  half  rising  from  her  bier, 

And  gazed  and  shrieked  and  wrung  her  hands  in  vain, 
In  unimaginable  wild  distress  — 
Alone  in  the  vast  ocean's  loneliness. 

No  answering  shout,  no  dim  emerging  shape  — 

Or  they  are  lost  in  the  perpetual  roar 
Of  waters  and  the  formless  glooms  that  drape 

The  solitary  coast.     And  evermore 
The  raft  is  slowly  drifting  from  the  cape  ; 

And  still  no  dory  from  the  inner  shore 
And  long  dark  river  pier,  nor  boatman's  cry, 
Brings  hope  that  he  is  safe  and  help  is  nigh. 

Dying  she  seems ;  and,  like  one  dying,  sums 

Her  good  and  evil  days  in  manifold 
Visions  of  home  and  love  ;  till  life  becomes 

A  dream  of  misery  and  mortal  cold, 
And  mercifully  pain  itself  benumbs 

The  sense  of  pain.     And  so  the  night  grows  old ; 
And,  like  a  shuttle  of  the  wind,  which  shifts 
Sharply  about,  back  towards  the  cape  she  drifts. 


164    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

PART  IV 

The  night  grows  old,  the  moon  is  low,  the  stars 
Drowse  in  the  liquid  depths  of  heaven.     And  now, 

With  hope  rewakened  by  the  missing  spars, 
Ben  searches  sea  and  shore,  and  drives  his  bow 

Amidst  the  breakers  of  the  rocks  and  bars ; 
Darting  with  desperate  speed  his  daring  prow 

At  any  shape  or  shadow,  which  may  be 

Shadow  or  shape  he  longs,  yet  dreads,  to  see. 

He  rounds  the  cape,  from  cove  to  cove  he  rows, 
And,  as  the  moon  is  setting,  comes  at  last 

To  Old  Fort  Beach,  which,  half  in  shadow,  shows 
A  long  low  shape  upon  the  shingle  cast. 

Through  tumbling  kelp,  rolled  in  the  undertow's 
Enormous  foaming  jaws  that  hold  it  fast, 

He  shoots  his  skiff  ashore,  and  stoops  beside 

That  long  low  shape  left  stranded  by  the  tide : 

A  mass  of  spars  and  twisted  ropes,  still  wet 

From  the  receding  wave,  with  flecks  of  spume  on 

The  dark,  drenched  sail,  and  something  darker  yet  — 
A  shadow  in  the  shadow,  ghastly,  human, 

Stretched  on  the  raft.     Mother  and  son  have  met. 
Cold  to  the  touch,  appalling,  droops  the  woman. 

He  lifts  her  from  the  raft,  and,  kneeling  there, 

Bends  over  her  in  terror  and  despair. 

"  Mother !  —  O  God !  you  are  not  dead !  "    He  takes 
A  rum-flask  from  his  coat  in  furious  haste, 

And  for  the  first  time  in  his  wild  youth  makes 
Wise  use  of  its  bad  contents.     At  the  taste 

She  gives  a  little  moan  of  pain,  and  wakes 
Slowly  to  consciousness  of  strong  arms  placed 

Around  her,  and  a  shadowy  visage  bo\yed 

Above  her  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  cloud. 

And,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  prays  — 
To  Heaven,  to  her,  with  mingled  oaths,  as  if 


THE   WRECK  OF  THE  FISHING-BOAT  165 

Profanity  and  prayer  were  kin.     He  lays 

Full  half  his  garments  on  her  in  the  skiff, 
And  pushes  off  in  the  moon's  faint  last  rays ; 

And  rows  away  by  sombre  cove  and  cliff, 
And  on  through  flashing  surge  and  shadowy  air, 
Under  the  light-house  lantern's  streaming  glare. 

Meanwhile  the  little  ones  lie  sunk  in  deep 

And  restful  slumber,  till,  with  direful  din, 
Which  fills  the  house  and  wakes  them  from  their  sleep, 

A  sudden  headlong  force  comes  bursting  in. 
Staring  with  fear,  upright  the  youngsters  leap, 

And  see  what  seems  their  brother  Benjamin 
Bearing  a  great  black  burden  on  his  arm 
In  the  gray  dawn,  and  shouting  loud  alarm. 

"  Quick !  for  the  doctor,  for  the  neighbors,  run ! 

Mother  is  drowned  !  "     Half  naked,  from  the  shed, 
With  sobs  of  terror,  speeds  the  oldest  one. 

The  others,  wondering,  whispering,  "  Is  she  dead  ?  " 
Clasp  their  small  hands,  while  the  remorseful  son 

Is  getting  her  into  their  soft  warm  bed. 
Too  weak  for  words,  she  gives  a  pitying  sigh 
And  faint  sweet  smile,  to  hear  her  baby  cry. 

She  had  not  thought  that  ever  she  should  hear 

That  cry  again.     And  now  she  seems  half  blessed : 

Ben  is  so  good,  her  little  home  so  dear  ! 

Now,  if  she  dies,  she  feels  that  this  is  best  — 

To  fold  her  palms  with  friends  and  kindred  near, 
In  her  dear  home,  and  then  be  laid  to  rest 

By  gentle  hands  beside  those  little  graves, 

And  not  to  perish  in  the  cold  dark  waves. 

If  only  Job  were  safe  !     That  thought  again, 
With  throbbing  life's  return,  distracts  her  mind. 

The  neighbors  now  come  hurrying,  earnest  men 
And  white-faced,  eager  women,  all  so  kind. 

Some  stay  to  serve  the  sick,  and  some,  with  Ben, 
Put  forth  in  boats  and  scour  the  coast  to  find 


166    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  missing  man  ;  while  springs  triumphantly 
The  glorious  sun  from  out  the  glorious  sea. 

Its  far-off  flag  of  smoke  a  steamship  trails 
Across  the  fiery  orb  ;  and  here  and  there, 

On  the  blue  dome  of  ocean,  tacking  sails 
Darken  and  brighten  in  the  purple  air. 

Forgetting  death  and  wreck  and  ruthless  gales, 
The  broad  bright  sea  is  marvellously  fair  ! 

With  quivering  scales  and  panting  side,  lies  curled 

The  azure  dragon  round  about  the  world. 

Such  beauty  seems  a  mockery  of  their  quest. 

The  frolic  waters  well  their  secret  keep, 
And  hide  grim  death  beneath  a  lovely  breast. 

Down  in  the  green  recesses  of  the  deep, 
Where,  to  and  fro,  in  noiseless  dark  unrest, 

The  slow  mysterious  plumes  of  sea-weed  sweep, 
With  upturned  face  and  sightless,  staring  eyes, 
Beckoning  with  spectral  hand,  the  dead  man  lies. 

Five  days  they  search  in  vain  ;  upon  the  last, 
A  farmer  gathering  sea-weed  hears  a  yelp 

Of  terror  from  his  cur,  and  starts  aghast 
At  something  hideous  tangled  in  the  kelp. 

Ox-goad  and  fork  down  on  the  beach  are  cast ; 
And  from  the  nearest  farm  runs  ready  help. 

'T  is  done  :  the  slow,  unwieldy  oxen  start, 

With  a  dread  burden  oozing  in  the  cart. 

Beside  the  little  graves  is  shaped  another  ; 

Then  the  sad  burial.     Her  own  life  scarce  won 
From  death,  at  home  still  lay  the  weak,  wan  mother ; 

But  with  the  children  walked  the  oldest  son, 
His  hat  plucked  fiercely  on  his  brow  —  their  brother 

From  that  time  forth,  and  father,  both  in  one  — 
Rage  in  his  heart,  and  on  his  bowed  soul  set 
The  thorny  crown  of  sorrow,  vain  regret. 


AUNT  HANNAH  167 


AUNT  HANNAH 

SHE  is  known  to  all  the  town,  in  her  quaintly  fashioned  gown, 
And  wide  bonnet  —  you  would  guess  it  at  the  distance  of  a  mile  ; 

With  her  little  sprigs  of  smilax,  and  her  lavender  and  lilacs, 
Snowy  napkins  and  big  basket,  and  serenely  simple  smile. 

She  is  just  a  little  queer  ;  and  few  gentlefolk,  I  fear, 

In  their  drawing-rooms  would  welcome  that  benignant,  beaming  face  ; 
And  the  truth  is,  old  Aunt  Hannah's  rather  antiquated  manners 

In  some  fashionable  circles  would  seem  sadly  out  of  place. 

Yet  there  's  something  quite  refined  in  her  manners  and  her  mind, 
As  you  presently  discover  ;  and  't  is  well  enough  to  know, 

Everything  that  now  so  odd  is  in  the  bonnet  and  the  bodice 
Was  the  very  height  of  fashion  five-and-forty  years  ago. 

She  was  then  a  reigning  belle ;  and  I  Ve  heard  old  ladies  tell 
How  at  all  the  balls  and  parties  Hannah  Amsden  took  the  lead : 

Perfect  bloom  and  maiden  sweetness,  lily  grace  of  rare  completeness, 
Though  the  stalk  stands  rather  stiffly  now  the  flower  has  gone  to  seed. 

She  had  all  that  love  could  give,  all  that  makes  it  sweet  to  live  — 
Fond  caresses,  jewels,  dresses  ;  and  with  eloquent  appeal 

Many  a  proud  and  rich  adorer  knelt  —  in  metaphor  —  before  her : 
Metaphorically  only  does  your  modern  lover  kneel. 

If  she  heeded,  't  was  because,  in  their  worship,  their  applause, 
Her  perfection  was  reflected,  and  a  pleasing  music  heard  ; 

But  she  suffered  them  no  nearer  than  her  goldfinch  or  her  mirror, 
And  she  hardly  held  them  dearer  than  her  pier-glass  or  her  bird. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  day  when  she  gave  her  heart  away  — 
If  that  rightly  be  called  giving  which  is  neither  choice  nor  will, 

But  a  charm,  a  fascination,  and  a  wild  sweet  exultation  — 
All  the  fresh  young  life  outgoing  in  a  strange  ecstatic  thrill. 

At  a  city  ball,  by  chance,  she  first  met  his  ardent  glance. 

He  was  neither  young  nor  handsome,  but  a  man  of  subtle  parts, 
With  an  eye  of  such  expression  as  your  lover  by  profession 

Finds  an  excellent  possession  when  he  goes  a-hunting  hearts. 


168    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

It  could  trouble,  it  could  burn ;  and  when  first  he  chanced  to  turn 
That  fine  glance  on  Hannah  Amsden,  it  lit  up  with  swift  desire, 

With  a  sudden  dilatation,  and  a  radiant  admiration, 

And  shot  down  her  soul's  deep  heaven  like  a  meteor  trailing  fire. 

How  was  any  one  to  know  that  those  eyes  had  looked  just  so 
On  a  hundred  other  women,  with  a  gaze  as  bright  and  strange  ? 

There  are  men  who  change  their  passions  even  oftener  than  their  fash 
ions, 
And  the  best  of  loving  always,  to  their  mind,  is  still  to  change. 

Nay,  it  was  not  base  deceit :  his  own  conquest  seemed  complete. 

They  were  soon  affianced  lovers  ;  and  her  opening  life  was  filled 
With  the  flush  of  flame-lit  fancies,  morning's  rosy-hued  romances, 

All  the  dews  of  hope  and  rapture  love's  delicious  dawn  distilled. 

Home  the  country  maiden  went ;  and  a  busy  summer  spent 
All  in  bridal  preparations,  blissful  troubles,  happy  woes  ; 

Fitting  dresses,  filling  presses,  little  crosses  and  distresses  — 
Those  preliminary  prickles  to  the  hymeneal  rose. 

Never,  since  the  world  began,  course  of  true  love  smoother  ran ; 

Not  an  eddy  of  dissension,  nor  the  ripple  of  a  doubt. 
All  the  neighbors  and  relations  came  with  kind  congratulations, 

And  a  hundred  invitations  to  the  wedding-feast  went  out. 

All  the  preparations  thrived,  and  the  wedding-day  arrived  : 

Pleased  but  pensive  moved  the  mother ;  and  the  father,  with  a  smile 

Broad  and  genial  as  the  summer,  gave  a  welcome  to  each  comer : 
All  things  turned  on  golden  hinges,  all  went  merry,  for  a  while. 

And  the  lovely  bride,  arrayed  all  in  laces  and  brocade, 

Orange  blossoms  in  her  tresses  (strange  as  now  the  story  seems), 

Quite  enchanting  and  enchanted,  in  her  chamber  blushed  and  panted, 
And  but  one  thing  now  was  wanted  to  fulfil  her  darling  dreams. 

For  the  clergyman  was  there,  to  unite  the  happy  pair, 

And  the  guests  were  all  assembled,  and  the  company  sat  dumb ; 

And  the  banquet  was  belated,  and  the  maid  was  still  unmated, 
And  the  wedding  waited,  waited,  for  a  coach  that  did  not  come. 


AUNT  HANNAH  169 


Then  a  few  began  to  sneer,  and  a  horror  and  a  fear 

Fell  on  friends  and  anxious  parents  ;  and  the  bride  with  cheek  aflame, 
All  too  rudely  disenchanted,  in  her  chamber  paced  and  panted ; 

And  the  one  thing  still  was  wanted ;  and  the  one  thing  never  came. 

Glassy  smiles  and  feeble  chat  —  then  the  parson  took  his  hat, 
And  the  wedding  guests  departed,  glad  to  breathe  the  outer  air ; 

Till  the  last  farewell  was  taken,  kind  word  offered,  kind  hand  shaken  ; 
And  the  great  house  stood  forsaken  in  its  shame  and  its  despair. 

With  a  firmness  justified  less  by  hope,  perhaps,  than  pride, 

All  her  misery,  all  their  pity,  Hannah  bore  without  complaint ; 

Till  her  hasting  mother  met  her,  pale  and  breathless,  with  a  letter, 
And  she  saw  the  superscription,  and  shrieked  "  Frederick  !  "  and  grew 
faint. 

With  quick  hand  the  seal  she  broke,  and  she  neither  breathed  nor  spoke, 
But  a  sudden  ashy  paleness  all  her  fair  face  overspread  ; 

And  a  terror  seemed  to  hold  her,  and  her  cheek  grew  cold  and  colder, 
And  her  icy  fingers  rattled  in  the  paper  as  she  read. 

In  her  chamber  once  alone,  on  the  floor  she  lay  like  stone, 
With  her  bridal  gear  about  her  —  all  that  idle,  fine  array ; 

And  the  white  moon,  white  and  holy,  to  her  chamber  bar  climbed  slowly, 
And  looked  in  upon  the  lowly,  wretched  lady  where  she  lay. 

Why  the  letter  was  delayed,  what  the  poor  excuse  he  made, 
Mattered  little  there  to  Hannah  lying  on  the  moonlit  floor. 

'T  was  his  heart  that  had  miscarried  ;  for  some  new  toy  he  had  tarried  : 
In  a  fortnight  he  was  married,  and  she  never  saw  him  more. 

Came  the  glorious  autumn  days  —  golden  hills,  cerulean  haze  — 

And  still  Hannah  kept  her  chamber  with  her  shame  and  her  despair  ; 

All  the  neighbors  and  relations  came  and  offered  consolations, 

And  the  preacher  preached  up  patience,  and  remembered  her  in  prayer. 

Spite  of  all  that  they  could  say,  Hannah  Amsden  pined  away. 

Came  the  dull  days  of  November,  came  the  winter,  wild  and  white  : 
Lonely,  listless,  hours  together  she  would  sit  and  watch  the  weather, 

Or  the  cold  bright  constellations  pulsing  in  the  pallid  night. 


170    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

For  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day  so  poor  Hannah  pined  away. 

Came  once  more  the  fatal  morning,  came  the  dread  hours  that  had 

been : 
All  the  anguish  she  lived  over,  waiting,  wailing  for  her  lover. 

Then  the  new  dawn  shone  about  her,  and  a  sweeter  dawn  within. 

All  her  soul  bleached  white  and  pure,  taught  by  suffering  to  endure, 
Taught  by  sorrow  to  know  sorrow,  and  to  bind  the  bleeding  heart, 

Now  a  pale  and  placid  sister  in  the  world  that  lately  missed  her  — 
Sweetly  pale  where  Peace  had  kissed  her  —  patient  Hannah  chose  her 
part. 

To  do  good  was  her  delight,  all  her  study  day  and  night ; 

And  around  her,  like  a  fragrance  in  the  halo  round  a  saint, 
Breathed  the  holy  exhalation  of  her  life  and  occupation. 

But  the  rising  generation  soon  began  to  call  her  quaint. 

For  her  self-forgetfulness  even  extended  to  her  dress  ; 

Milliner  and  mantua-maker  never  crossed  her  threshold  more ; 
But  the  bodice,  and  the  bonnet  with  the  wondrous  bow  upon  it, 

Kept  their  never-changing  fashion  of  the  faded  years  before. 

So  she  still  goes  up  and  down  on  her  errands  through  the  town ; 

And  sometimes  a  school-girl  titters,  or  an  urchin  stops  to  grin, 
Or  a  village  cur  barks  at  her  ;  but  to  her  't  is  little  matter  — 

You  may  fleer  or  you  may  flatter  —  such  deep  peace  her  soul  is  in. 

Among  all  the  sick  and  poor  there  is  nobody  so  sure 

Of  a  welcome  and  a  blessing  ;  and  who  sees  her  once  appear, 

Coming  round  some  poor  man's  trellis  with  her  dainty  pots  of  jellies, 
Or  big  basket  brimmed  with  bounty,  soon  forgets  that  she  is  queer. 

For  her  pleasant  words,  addressed  to  the  needy  and  distressed, 
Are  so  touching  and  so  tender,  full  of  sympathy  and  cheer, 

By  the  time  your  smile  is  ready  for  the  simple,  dear  old  lady, 
It  is  pretty  sure  to  tremble  in  the  balance  with  a  tear. 


TOM 'S  COME  HOME  171 

TOM'S   COME  HOME 

WITH  its  heavily  rocking  and  swinging  load, 
The  stage-coach  rolls  up  the  mountain  road. 
The  mowers  lean  on  their  scythes  and  say, 
"  Hullo  !  what  brings  Big  George  this  way  ?  " 
The  children  climb  the  slats  and  wait 
To  see  him  drive  past  the  door-yard  gate ; 
When,  four  in  hand,  sedate  and  grand, 
He  brings  the  old  craft  like  a  ship  to  land. 
At  the  window,  mild  grandmotherly  eyes 
Beam  from  their  glasses  with  quaint  surprise, 
Grow  wide  with  wonder,  and  guess,  and  doubt ; 
Then  a  quick,  half-stifled  voice  shrieks  out, 
"  Tom !  Tom 's  come  home  !  " 

The  face  at  the  casement  disappears, 

To  shine  at  the  door,  all  joy  and  tears, 

As  a  traveller,  dusty  and  bearded  and  brown, 

Over  the  wheel  steps  lightly  down. 
"  Well,  mother !  "     «  My  son !  "     And  to  his  breast 

A  forward-tottering  form  is  pressed. 

She  lies  there,  and  cries  there ;  now  at  arm's-length 

Admires  his  manly  size  and  strength 

(While  he  winks  hard  one  misty  eye)  ; 

Then  calls  to  the  youngsters  staring  nigh  — 
"  Quick  !  go  for  your  gran'ther !  run,  boys,  run ! 

Tell  him  your  uncle  —  tell  him  his  son  — 
Our  Tom  's  come  home  !  " 

The  stage-coach  waits ;  but  little  cares  she 
What  faces  pleasantly  smile  to  see 
Her  jostled  glasses  and  tumbled  cap. 
Big  George's  hands  the  trunk  unstrap 
And  bear  it  in ;  while  two  light-heeled 
Young  Mercuries  fly  to  the  mowing  field, 
And  shriek  and  beckon,  and  meet  half-way 
The  old  gran'ther,  lame,  and  gaunt,  and  gray, 
Coat  on  arm,  half  in  alarm, 
Striding  over  the  stony  farm. 


172   THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  good  news  clears  his  cloudy  face, 
And  he  cries,  as  he  quickens  his  anxious  pace, 
"  Tom  ?     Tom  come  home  ?  " 

With  twitching  cheek  and  quivering  lid 
(A  soft  heart  under  the  hard  lines  hid), 
And  "  Tom,  how  d'e  do  ?  "  in  a  husky  voice, 
He  grasps  with  rough,  strong  hand  the  boy's  — 
A  boy's  no  more  !     "  I  should  n't  have  known 
That  beard."     While  Tom's  fine  barytone 
Rolls  out  from  his  deep  chest  cheerily, 
"  You  're  hale  as  ever,  I  'm  glad  to  see." 
In  the  low  back  porch  the  mother  stands, 
And  rubs  her  glasses  with  trembling  hands, 
And,  smiling  with  eyes  that  blear  and  blink, 
Chimes  in,  "I  never  !  "  and  "  Only  think  ! 
Our  Tom  's  come  home !  " 

With  question  and  joke  and  anecdote, 

He  brushes  his  hat,  they  dust  his  coat, 

While  all  the  household  gathers  near  — 

Tanned  urchins,  eager  to  see  and  hear, 

And  large-eyed,  dark-eyed,  shy  young  mother,  — 

Widow  of  Tom's  unlucky  brother, 

Who  turned  out  ill,  and  was  drowned  at  the  mill : 

The  stricken  old  people  mourn  him  still, 

And  the  hope  of  their  lives  in  him  undone ; 

But  grief  for  the  dissolute,  ruined  son  — 

Their  best-beloved  and  oldest  boy  — 

Is  all  forgotten,  or  turned  to  joy, 

Now  Tom  's  come  home. 

Yet  Tom  was  never  the  favored  child, 
Though  Tom  was  steady,  and  Will  was  wild ; 
But  often  his  own  and  his  brother's  share 
Of  blows  or  blame  he  was  forced  to  bear  ; 
Till  at  last  he  said,  "  Here  is  no  room 
For  both —  I  go  !  "     Now  he  to  whom 
Scant  grace  was  shown  has  proved  the  one 
Large-hearted,  upright,  trusty  son  ; 


TOM'S  COME  HOME  173 

And  well  may  the  old  folks  joy  to  find 
His  brow  so  frank  and  his  eye  so  kind, 
No  shadow  of  all  the  past  allowed 
To  trouble  the  present  hour,  or  cloud 
His  welcome  home. 

His  trunk  unlocked,  the  lid  he  lifts, 
And  lays  out  curious,  costly  gifts  ; 
For  Tom  has  prospered  since  he  went 
Into  his  long  self-banishment. 
Each  youngster's  glee,  as  he  hugs  his  share, 
The  widow's  surprise,  and  the  old  folks'  air 
Of  affectionate  pride  in  a  son  so  good, 
Thrill  him  with  generous  gratitude. 
And  he  thinks,  "  Am  I  that  lonely  lad 
Who  went  off  friendless,  poor,  and  sad, 
That  dismal  day  from  my  father's  door  ?  " 
And  can  it  be  true  he  is  here  once  more 
In  his  childhood's  home  ? 

JT  is  hard  to  think  of  his  brother  dead, 
And  a  widow  and  orphans  here  in  his  stead  — 
So  little  seems  changed  since  they  were  young  ! 
The  row  of  pegs  where  the  hats  were  hung ; 
The  checkered  chimney  and  hearth  of  bricks ; 
The  sober  old  clock  with  its  lonesome  ticks 
And  shrill,  loud  chime  for  the  flying  time ; 
The  stairs  the  bare  feet  used  to  climb, 
Tom  chasing  his  wild  bedfellow  Will ; 
And  there  is  the  small  low  bedroom  still, 
And  the  table  he  had  when  a  little  lad : 
Ah,  Tom,  does  it  make  you  sad  or  glad, 
This  coming  home  ? 

Tom's  heart  is  moved.     "  Now  don't  mind  me  ! 

I  am  no  stranger  guest,"  cries  he. 
"  And,  father,  I  say !  "  —  with  the  old-time  laugh  — 
"  Don't  kill  for  me  any  fatted  calf ! 

But  go  now  and  show  me  the  sheep  and  swine, 

And  the  cattle  —  where  is  that  colt  of  mine  ?  — 


174    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  the  farm  and  crops  —  is  harvest  over  ? 
I  'd  like  a  chance  at  the  oats  and  clover  ! 
I  can  mow,  you  '11  find,  and  cradle  and  bind, 
Load  hay,  stow  away,  pitch,  rake  behind ; 
For  I  know  a  scythe  from  a  well-sweep  yet. 
In  an  hour  I  '11  make  you  quite  forget 

That  I  've  been  from  home." 

He  plucks  from  its  peg  an  old  farm  hat, 
And  with  cordial  chat  upon  this  and  that, 
Tom  walks  with  his  father  about  the  place. 
There  's  a  pensive  grace  in  his  fine  young  face 
As  they  loiter  under  the  orchard  trees, 
As  he  breathes  once  more  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  looks  from  the  hill-side  far  away, 
Over  pasture  and  fallow  and  field  of  hay, 
To  the  hazy  peaks  of  the  azure  range, 
Which  change  forever,  yet  never  change. 
The  wild  sweet  winds  his  welcome  blow : 
Even  old  Monadnock  seems  to  know  , 

That  Tom 's  come  home. 

The  old  man  stammers  and  speaks  at  last : 
"  You  notice  your  mother  is  failing  fast, 
Though  she  can't  see  it.     Poor  Will's  disgrace 
And  debts,  and  the  mortgage  on  the  place  ; 
His  sudden  death  —  't  was  a  dreadful  blow ; 
She  could  n't  bear  up  like  a  man,  you  know. 
She  's  talked  of  you  since  the  trouble  came  : 
Some  things  in  the  past  she  seems  to  blame 
Herself  for ;  what,  it  is  hard  to  tell. 
I  marvel  how  she  keeps  round  so  well, 
For  often  all  night  she  lies  awake. 
I  'm  thankful,  if  only  for  her  sake, 

That  you  've  come  home." 

They  visit  the  field ;  Tom  mows  with  the  men ; 
And  now  they  come  round  to  the  porch  again. 
The  mother  draws  Tom  aside,  lets  sink 
Her  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  —  "  What  do  you  think  ? 


TOM'S  COME  HOME  175 

You  see,"  she  says,  "  he  is  broken  quite. 
Sometimes  he  tosses  and  groans  all  night ; 
And,  Tom,  it  is  hard,  it  is  hard  indeed  I 
The  mortgage,  and  so  many  mouths  to  feed ! 
But  tell  him  he  must  not  worry  so, 
And  work  so  hard,  for  he  don't  know 
That  he  has  n't  the  strength  of  a  younger  man. 
Counsel  him,  comfort  him,  all  you  can, 
While  you  're  at  home." 

Tom's  heart  is  full ;  he  moves  away, 
And  ponders  what  he  will  do  and  say. 
And  now  at  evening  all  are  met, 
The  tea  is  drawn,  the  table  set ; 
But  when  the  old  man,  with  bended  head, 
In  reverent,  fervent  tones  has  said 
The  opening  phrase  of  his  simple  grace, 
He  falters,  the  tears  course  down  his  face  ; 
For  the  words  seem  cold,  and  the  sense  of  the  old 
Set  form  is  too  weak  his  joy  to  hold  ; 
And  broken  accents  best  express 
The  upheaved  heart's  deep  thankfulness, 
Now  Tom  's  come  home. 

The  supper  done,  Tom  has  his  say : 
"  I  heard  of  some  matters  first  to-day  ; 
And  I  call  it  a  shame  —  you  're  both  to  blame  — 
That  a  son,  who  has  only  to  sign  his  name, 
To  lift  the  mortgage  and  clear  the  score, 
Should  never  have  had  that  chance  before. 
From  this  time  forth  you  are  free  from  care  ! 
Your  troubles  I  share  ;  your  burdens  I  bear. 
So  promise  to  quit  hard  work,  and  say 
That  you  '11  give  yourselves  a  holiday. 
Now,  father  !  now,  mother  !  you  can't  refuse  ; 
For  what 's  a  son  for,  and  what 's  the  use 
Of  his  coming  home  ?  " 

And  so  there  is  cheer  in  the  house  to-night. 
It  can  hardly  hold  so  much  delight. 


176    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Tom  wanders  forth  across  the  lot, 
And,  under  the  stars  —  though  Tom  is  not 
So  pious  as  boys  sometimes  have  been  — 
Thanks  Heaven,  that  turned  his  thoughts  from  sin, 
And  blessed  him,  and  brought  him  home  once  more. 
And  now  he  knocks  at  a  cottage  door, 
For  one  who  has  waited  many  a  year 
In  hope  that  thrilling  sound  to  hear  ; 
Who,  happy  as  other  hearts  may  be, 
Knows  well  there  is  none  so  glad  as  she 
That  Tom 's  come  home. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  ARABELLA 

'T  WAS  the  good  fast  yacht,  The  Mermaid,  that  went  sailing  down  the 

bay, 

With  a  party  predetermined  to  be  jolly,  one  would  say, 
By  the  demijohns  and  boxes,  by  the  lemons  and  the  beer, 
And  the  ice,  that  went  aboard  her  just  before  she  left  the  pier. 

With  the  wind  upon  her  quarter,  how  she  courtesies  and  careens 
To  the  nodding,  laughing  billows  !  how  her  tower  of  canvas  leans  ! 
Past  the  headland,  by  the  islands,  with  the  flying  gulls  she  flew, 
And  her  long  wake  lay  behind  her  like  a  stripe  across  the  blue. 

And  I  guess  that  all  were  happy  on  her  deck,  except,  perhaps, 
Mr.  Brown  —  one  of  your  poetizing,  sentimental  chaps  : 
In  the  midst  of  joy  and  juleps  he  sits  spiritless  and  pale, 
With  his  chin  upon  his  knuckles  and  his  elbow  on  the  rail  — 

Quite  Byronic,  I  assure  you  —  and  his  mournful  gaze  intent 
On  the  fascinating  features  of  Miss  Arabella  Bent. 
That  is  she  beside  the  mast  there,  with  the  tumbler  and  the  straw : 
Such  a  laugh  you  hear  but  seldom,  and  such  teeth  you  never  saw. 

Teeth  so  fine  you  might  suspect  them,  but  that  curious  eyes  behold 
"  In  their  Milky  Way  of  whiteness  just  one  little  star  of  gold  "  — 
That  is  what  our  poet  called  it  in  a  sonnet  that  he  wrote, 
Which  't  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  we  have  n't  room  to  quote. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ARABELLA         177 

She  has  had  a  hundred  lovers,  and  she  held  them  cheap  as  dirt  — 

For  I  grieve  to  say  she  's  been  a  most  unconscionable  flirt. 

But  they  fell  away  to  sixty,  and  they  dwindled  down  to  six, 

And  now,  having  passed  the  forest,  she  must  make  a  choice  of  sticks. 

Only  two  at  last  are  left  her  —  Colonel  Birch  and  Mr.  Brown. 
It  was  long  a  question  which  should  be  the  envy  of  the  town. 
For  a  while  it  seemed  the  poet ;  now  it  certainly  is  Birch, 
And  at  ten  o'clock  next  Tuesday  she  will  marry  him  in  church. 

There  he  is  —  and  not  by  any  means  a  crooked  stick  is  he  : 
It  is  wonderful  how  very  straight  an  old  Bent  beau  can  be  ! 
He  has  fought  his  country's  battles  —  in  a  commissary's  tent ; 
And  he  still  is  young  and  handsome  —  in  the  eyes  of  Bella  Bent. 

Well  might  her  perfidious  conduct  drive  a  poet-lover  mad  ! 
After  all  his  sighs  and  sonnets,  it  was  really  too  bad.  - 
Although  poor,  and  six-and-thirty,  and  his  last  book  has  n't  sold, 
'T  was  her  teeth  that  took  his  fancy,  and  he  cares  not  for  her  gold. 

Calmly  sipping,  sits  the  Colonel ;  and  he  keeps  his  eye  the  while 
On  his  heiress  ;  and  you  read  it  in  his  half-developed  smile, 
Cold  and  quiet  as  his  sabre's  edge  just  started  from  its  sheath  — 
'T  was  her  gold  that  fired  his  fancy,  and  he  cares  not  for  her  teeth. 

So  the  yacht  sailed  down  the  harbor  to  a  favorite  fishing-ground, 
Where  the  skipper  dropped  an  anchor  ;  for  the  gentlemen  were  bound 
Just  to  try  their  hands  at  cod,  and  have  a  chowder.     There  she  lay 
Rocking  on  the  ocean  billows  that  came  rolling  up  the  bay ; 

And  the  hooks  went  down  with  clam  bait,  and  —  in  short,  the  luck  was 

fine  ; 

Even  Brown  grew  interested  in  an  unpoetic  line ; 
And  he  smiled ;  but  Arabella  grew  as  suddenly  quite  pale, 
Leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  and  laid  her  arm  upon  the  rail. 

Like  the  lady  in  the  ballad,  she  grew  sick  as  he  grew  well ; 
With  the  heaving  of  the  billows  her  fair  bosom  heaved  and  fell : 
He  is  actually  jolly,  when,  at  every  sudden  lurch, 
Dizzy,  dreadful,  dying  qualms  oppress  the  future  Mrs.  Birch. 


178    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  is  bending  by  the  gunwale  —  all  at  once  you  hear  a  scream : 
From  her  lips,  in  anguish  parted,  with  a  glitter  and  a  gleam, 
Something  darts  into  the  flashing  wave,  and  disappears  beneath, 
While  in  strangely  altered  accents,  "  Oh,  my  teeth !  "  says  she,  "  my 
teeth !  " 

Then  as  she  is  wildly  leaning,  gazing  downward  in  despair, 
One  mad  breeze  has  snatched  her  bonnet,  and  another  has  her  hair. 
It  all  happened  in  a  moment :  in  the  ocean  sink  the  pearls, 
And  far  off  upon  the  water  float  the  bonnet  and  the  curls. 

And  could  that  be  Arabella,  the  pale  ghost  that  shrieking  fled  ?  — 
All  below,  a  lovely  woman,  but  above,  a  spectral  head  ! 
Something  sadder  than  sea-sickness  now  disturbed  the  maiden's  breast, 
And  it  was  n't  her  lost  tresses  that  had  left  her  so  distressed. 

Brown  was  busy  with  his  fishing,  and  just  then  he  had  a  bite  ; 
The  sharp  line  it  cut  his  fingers,  but  he  pulled  with  all  his  might. 
"  Help  !  "  he  shouted.     'T  was  a  monster,  but  at  last  it  flopping  lay 
In  the  yacht,  just  at  the  moment  they  were  getting  under  way. 

"  Now  what 's  up  ?  "  says  Brown.     "  The  anchor  —  and  a  big  fish  on 

your  line ! 

Don't  you  know  ?     Why,  Arabella  gave  her  salt  tears  to  the  brine, 
And  her  hairpins  to  the  sculpins,  and,  the  oddest  thing  of  all, 
What  should  fall  into  the  water  but  her  thundering  waterfall !  " 

Much  amazed  was  Brown  to  hear  it  (though  the  worst  had  not  been  said), 
When  up  spoke  the  jovial  skipper,  "  Now  let 's  put  for  Porpoise  Head  ; 
There  we  '11  land  and  have  our  chowder  ;  we  have  fish  enough,"  says  he. 
"  First  the  locks  are  to  be  rescued ;  we  will  run  then  for  the  quay. 

"  Steer  for  yonder  bobbing  buoy !  "     It  was  the  chignon  that  he  meant. 
Soon  the  yacht  was  laid  alongside ;  out  from  her  a  paddle  went. 
Vastly  pleased  were  all  to  see  it,  and  indeed  they  had  been  dull 
Not  to  smile  at  woman's  tresses  dripping  from  The  Mermaid's  scull. 

Then  they  made  for  Porpoise  Landing.     In  the  cabin,  Birch  the  while 
Pleaded  fondly  with  his  lady  :  "  Dearest,  let  me  see  you  smile  ! 
Here  's  your  beautiful  new  bonnet,  and  your  very  wavy  hair." 
But  she  said,  "  Oh,  what 's  a  bonnet  ?  and  oh,  Colonel !  what  is  hair  ?  " 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ARABELLA         179 

From  her  interesting  features  then  her  handkerchief  she  took, 
Opened  wide  those  lovely  lips  of  hers,  and  hoarsely  whispered,  "  Look  !  " 
All  that  dazzling  row  had  vanished  !     Birch's  blood  within  him  froze  ; 
But  he  quickly  said,  "  I  love  you  —  love  you  still,  in  spite  of  those  !  " 

"  But  you  do  not,  oh !  you  do  not,  see  the  point,  dear  Colonel,  yet : 
Full  five  weeks  it  took  my  dentist  to  get  up  that  splendid  set ; 
And,  alas !  I  've  been  and  lost  'em  where  you  can't  go  down  and  search, 
And  how  can  a  woman  give  her  hand  —  without  her  teeth  —  in  church  ? 

"  All  the  world  expects  the  wedding,  and  next  Tuesday  is  the  day  ; 
I  was  going  to  look  so  stunning,  and  —  oh !  what  will  people  say  ? 
Then  there  's  Brown  —  think  what  a  triumph  it  will  surely  be  to  him  !  " 
"  I  must  say  it  is  a  fix !  "  replies  the  Colonel,  looking  grim. 

Then  the  ladies  crowded  round  her :  "  We  are  coming  to  the  pier ! 
Are  you  better  ?     Bite  this  cracker ;  it  will  do  you  good,  my  dear. 
Pretty  soon  we  '11  have  our  chowder  —  you  are  fond  of  that,  you  know." 
But  the  maid  behind  her  muffler  only  moaned  and  murmured,  "  No  ! 

"  Leave  me  here  !  "    And  so  they  left  her,  with  the  Colonel  by  her  side : 
Never  sat  so  glum  a  bridegroom  by  so  dismal-faced  a  bride. 
All  the  rest  went,  laughing,  romping,  on  the  shore,  just  out  of  reach 
Of  the  breakers  that  came  dashing  their  white  foreheads  on  the  beach. 

All  but  Brown  :  up  to  the  cottage  through  the  glaring  sand  he  trod, 

Proudly  following  the  varlet  who  bore  off  the  monster  cod. 

"  For,"  says  he,   "  I  hooked  the  fellow,  and  I  'm  bound  to  see  him 

weighed." 
That  is  done,  and  still  he  lingers,  "  just  to  see  a  chowder  made." 

Through  the  fellow's  long  white  waistcoat  slides  the  steward's  polished 

knife ; 
Stops  at  something :  "  Here  's  a  —     Bless  me !  what  in  time  ?     Upon 

my  life ! " 

Now  I  know  you  won't  believe  me ;  but  there,  grinning  from  within, 
Through  a  very  broad  incision,  with  a  cool,  sarcastic  grin, 

Stowed  away  with  stolen  clam  bait,  crab  and  shrimp  and  octopod, 
In  the  belly  of  that  careless,  undiscriminating  cod, 


180    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Was  the  strangest,  oddest,  queerest,  most  amazing  prize,  which  he 
For  some  shining  bait  had  swallowed  as  it  wriggled  through  the  sea. 

"  Arabella's  teeth,  by  Heaven  !  "  —  Brown  has  seized  them,  and,  behold ! 
In  their  "  Milky  Way  of  whiteness  "  there  's  his  little  "  star  of  gold," 
Where  the  dentist,  more  completely  to  disguise  the  vulgar  truth, 
By  a  masterly  device  had  plugged  an  artificial  tooth ! 

Out  rushed  Brown  —  with  tragic  gestures  he  ran  down  upon  the  shore, 
His  fine  eyes  in  frenzy  rolling  as  they  never  rolled  before ; 
In  his  hand  he  grasped  the  treasure.     "  Oh,  I  see  it  all !  "  says  he  ; 
"  Without  these  she  can't  be  married,  and  she  '11  maybe  yet  have  me." 

Then  up  went  his  hand  to  hurl  them,  but  as  quickly  it  came  down : 

After  all,  there  was  a  streak  of  magnanimity  in  Brown. 

"  Oh,  deceitful  Arabella  !  falsest  of  all  womankind  ! 

I  was  going  to  fling  'em  farther,  but  I  guess  I  '11  change  my  mind. 

"  Though  she  's  treated  me  so  meanly,  and  I  know  she  loves  me  not, 
I  won't  be  too  hard  upon  her  "  —  and  he  started  for  the  yacht. 
"  Cruel,  cruel  Arabella !  now  your  fate  is  in  my  hand  !  " 
And  he  thrust  it  in  his  pocket  as  he  strode  along  the  strand. 

In  the  gloomy  little  cabin  the  unhappy  couple  sat : 
Arabella,  lightly  shrieking,  dropped  her  chignon  and  her  hat, 
Upon  which  she  had  been  making  indispensable  repairs, 
As  with  sudden  clank  and   clatter  Brown  came  stumbling  down  the 
stairs. 

Then  upleaped  her  faithful  Colonel,  in  no  amicable  mood ; 
Face  to  face,  with  lowering  foreheads,  the  two  rivals,  stooping,  stood, 
For  they  both  were  rather  tallish,  and  the  cabin  roof  was  low. 
*'  Sir,"  says  Brown,  "  you  do   not  know  me,  or   you  would  n't   meet 
me  so. 

"  I  have  come  to  do  a  service  to  that  lady  weeping  there  ; 

For,  Miss  Bent,  I  know  your  secret,  and  I  beg  you  won't  despair. 

You  shall  go  to  church  on  Tuesday ;  you  shall  wear  your  bridal  wreath !  " 

And  from  out  his  trousers  pocket  he  produced  the  missing  teeth. 


THE   BALLAD  OF  ARABELLA  181 

"  Mine !  "  (upspringing,  Arabella  gave  her  head  a  fearful  thump). 

"  Brown  !  oh,  Brown  !  where  did  you  get  them  ?     I  declare,  you  are  a 

trump ! 

I  had  lost  them  in  the  ocean  !  "     "  And  I  found  them  on  the  shore !  " 
For  he  did  n't  deem  it  kindness  at  the  time  to  tell  her  more. 

"  Why,  what  did  you  think  ?  "     "  At  first,"  said  he,  "  I  thought  it  was  a 

spoon." 
She  replied,  "  Who  would  have  thought  that  they  could  wash  ashore  so 

soon  ! " 

And  she  dipped  them  in  a  tumbler,  turned  her  back  upon  the  two  — 
(While   Brown  whispered   to   the  Colonel:    "H— m!"      "You   don't 

say !  "     «  Yes,  I  do  !  ") 

For  a  moment ;  then  she  turned  again,  and,  to  be  brief,  she  had 
No  more  cause  to  use  a  muffler,  nor  occasion  to  be  sad. 
Then  the  Colonel  spoke  :  "  Excuse  me,  Brown  ;  I  did  n't  understand ; 
You  're  an  honorable  fellow,  and  I  offer  you  my  hand." 

With  a  smile  the  other  took  it,  while  the  grateful  lady  said, 
As  before  The  Mermaid's  mirror  she  arrayed  her  graceful  head, 
"  Brown,  I  wish  I  could  reward  you,  but  I  cannot  marry  two ; 
But  some  other  time  I  trust  that  I  may  do  as  much  for  you." 

"  Do  not  think  of  it,  I  beg  you.     Though  it 's  been  a  bitter  cup, 
I  've  been  cured  of  some  illusions,  and  I  freely  give  you  up. 
I  shall  change  my  occupation,  and  do  better  now,  I  hope : 
I  am  going  out  of  poetry,  and  going  into  soap." 

"  And  you  11  be  our  friend  ?  "    says  Bella.     "  So  we  Ve  settled  this 

affair ! 

Now  let 's  go  and  have  some  chowder,  for  I  'm  hungry  as  a  bear." 
And  she  joined  the  merry  party,  and  she  shook  her  dewy  curls, 
And  the  lightning  of  her  laughter  was  a  dazzling  flash  of  pearls. 

And  at  ten  A.  M.  on  Tuesday  she  and  Colonel  Birch  were  wed : 
'T  was  a  cheerful,  glad  occasion  —  for  his  creditors  —  't  is  said. 
All  admired  his  manly  bearing,  so  serenely  calm  was  he, 
And  collected  —  as  't  was  hoped  that  now  those  little  bills  might  be. 


182    THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  was  just  one  cloud  of  loveliness,  from  bridal  wreath  and  veil 
To  the  vast  voluminous  flounces,  and  the  drifted,  snowy  trail. 
Brown  was  present,  and  he  could  n't  for  his  life  repress  a  smile, 
As  he  saw  the  white  teeth  glitter  halfway  down  the  shady  aisle. 

And  he  whispered  to  the  lady  who  sat  blushing  by  his  side 

('T  was  the  old  soap-maker's  daughter,  who  was  soon  to  be  his  bride) 

That  there  could  have  been  no  wedding  —  though  the  fact  seemed  very 

odd  — 
If  it  had  n't  been  for  him  and  that  accommodating  cod. 


BOOK  IV 


A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Above  the  roofs  of  the  lowly  let  Poesy  hover  and  glance, 
And  set  by  the  humblest  highway  the  finger-post  of  Romance  ; 
Strong  in  the  wisdom  that  counsels  and  glad  with  the  faith  that  con 
soles, 

To  guide  men  ever  upward  to  higher  and  nobler  goals, 
To  cheer  with  chants  of  the  morning,  or  soothe  with  songs  of  the  night,  — 
So  live,  a  beguiler  of  sorrows  and  minister  of  delight. 


A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


A  HOME  IDYL 

I 

OVER  the  valley  the  storm-clouds  blow, 

Dark  and  low ; 
The  wild  air  whitens  with  flying  snow. 

Through  the  timber  two  lovers  ride, 

Side  by  side, 
Wrapped  in  a  shaggy  buffalo-hide. 

The  winter  has  paved  for  their  sleigh  a  track 

Over  the  back 
Of  the  river  rolling  deep  and  black. 

Encircled  by  trees  which  the  axe  has  spared, 

In  a  bared 
White  space  by  the  bank  is  their  home  prepared. 

There  Love  in  the  wilderness  far  aloof 

Wove  the  roof : 
Boughs  and  bark  are  the  warp  and  woof. 

A  small  rude  hut  amid  stumps  and  knolls,  — 

Cabin  of  poles, 
With  sticks  and  clay  for  the  chinks  and  holes. 

To  that  lonely  door  his  bride  he  brings  : 

Back  it  swings  : 
The  fire  is  kindled,  the  kettle  sings. 


186  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Though  wooden  platter  and  pewter  plate 

Indicate 
Lowly  station  and  small  estate  ; 

And  happy  they  if  their  little  hoard 

Will  afford 
Daily  bread  for  that  rough-hewn  board  ; 

Though  the  snow,  whirled  round  their  cabin,  sifts 

Through  the  rifts, 
And  up  to  the  window  climb  the  drifts, 

Let  the  forest  roar  and  the  tempest  blow  ! 

Drive  the  snow ! 
In  the  heart  of  the  hut  is  a  heavenly  glow. 

Love  that  is  mighty  and  Hope  that  is  great, 

Consecrate 
Wooden  platter  and  pewter  plate. 

Not  to  mansions  where  abide 

Wealth  and  pride, 
Comes  ever  a  happier  Christmas-tide. 

In  the  privacy  of  their  safe  retreat 

It  is  sweet 
To  hear  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind's  feet ; 

To  hear  the  tempest's  whistling  lash 
Smite  the  sash, 
And  the  mighty  hemlocks  howl  and  clash. 

H 

Far  from  the  city,  its  life  and  din, 

Friends  and  kin, 
Is  the  fresh  new  world  which  they  begin. 

In  and  about  with  busy  feet, 

Light  and  fleet, 
She  keeps  his  cabin  cozy  and  neat. 


A  HOME  IDYL  187 


With  shouldered  axe  I  see  him  go 

Through  the  snow, 
To  clear  the  land  for  harrow  and  hoe. 

Over  his  roof-tree  curls  the  smoke, 

While  the  stroke 
Of  his  axe  resounds  on  ash  and  oak. 

From  the  log  at  his  feet,  to  left  and  right, 

Fly  the  bright 
Splintered  chips  in  the  wintry  light. 

When  the  warm  days  come  in  early  spring, 

She  will  bring 
Her  work  to  the  woods  and  sew  and  sing. 

'T  is  pleasant  to  feel  her  watching  near, 

Joy  to  hear 
Her  voice  in  the  woodland,  high  and  clear ! 

Together  they  talk  in  the  new-fallen  tree, 

And  foresee 
The  work  of  their  hands  in  the  days  to  be. 

Where  the  beech  comes  crashing  down,  and  the  lithe 

Branches  writhe, 
He  will  turn  the  furrow  and  swing  the  scythe. 

A  rose  by  the  doorway  she  will  set, 

Nor  forget 
Pansies  and  pinks  and  mignonette. 

He  will  burn  the  clearing  and  plant  the  corn ; 

She  will  adorn 
Their  house  for  him  and  their  babe  unborn. 

Ill 

Swiftly  ever,  without  a  sound, 

Earth  goes  round, 
Air  and  ocean  and  solid  ground. 


188  A  HOME   IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Swiftly  for  them  as  for  you  and  me, 

Till  they  see 
What  they  foresaw  in  the  fallen  tree. 

Before  their  door  in  the  summer  morn, 

Waves  the  corn. 
'T  is  Christmas  again,  and  a  babe  is  born. 

Not  for  the  glories  of  wealth  and  art, 
Would  they  part 
With  that  small  treasure  of  home  and  heart. 

Dear  Heaven  !  what  springs  of  bliss  are  stirred, 

When  is  heard 
Its  laugh  or  its  first  low  lisping  word ! 

A  flower  let  fall  by  the  Infinite 

Love  has  lit 
In  their  path,  and  brought  God's  peace  with  it. 

IV 

The  world  goes  round,  and  year  by  year 

Still  appear 
Children  that  add  to  the  household  cheer. 

Now  a  daughter  and  now  a  son, 

One  by  one 
They  are  cradled,  they  creep,  they  walk,  they  run. 

Sons  and  daughters,  until  behold  ! 

Young  and  old, 
A  Jacob's-ladder  with  steps  of  gold  ! 

A  ladder  of  little  heads  !  each  fair 
Head  a  stair 
For  the  angels  that  visit  the  parent  pair. 

V 

Blesse'd  be  childhood  !     Even  its  chains 

Are  our  gains  ! 
Welcome  and  blessed,  with  all  the  pains, 


A  HOME  IDYL  189 


Losses,  and  upward  vanishings 

Of  light  wings,  — 
With  all  the  sorrow  and  toil  it  brings, 

All  burdens  that  ever  those  small  feet  bore 

To  our  door,  — 
BlesseM  and  welcome  for  evermore  ! 

VI 

What  new  delight,  when  over  their  toys 

Girls  and  boys 
In  the  Christmas  dawn  make  a  joyous  noise ! 

Floor-boards  clatter  and  roof-boards  ring, 

When  they  spring 
To  the  chimney-nook  where  the  stockings  swing. 

What  glee,  whenever  with  wild  applause 

One  withdraws 
Some  wonderful  gift  of  Santa  Glaus  ! 

Let  the  happy  little  ones  shout  and  play 

All  the  day ! 
But  the  hearts  of  the  parents,  where  are  they  ? 

No  new-made  home  in  the  woods,  but,  lo  ! 

Swift  or  slow, 
The  same  griefs  follow,  the  same  weeds  grow. 

To  the  virgin  wilderness,  toward  the  far 

Evening  star, 
Though  we  flee,  there  the  wind-blown  evils  are. 

The  lovers  had  dreamed  of  a  home  without 

Pain  and  doubt ; 
But  Sorrow  and  Death  have  found  them  out. 

The  loveliest  child  of  their  love  is  laid 

In  the  shade 
Of  the  lonely  pines,  more  lonely  made 


190  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

By  the  little  grave  where  the  vague  winds  blow, 

And  the  snow 
Curves  mockingly  over  the  mound  below. 

Let  the  children  all  the  Christmas  Day 
Shout  and  play ! 
But  the  hearts  of  the  parents  turn  away, 

By  tenderly  mournful  thoughts  subdued, 

To  the  rude, 
Low  grave  in  the  vast  gray  solitude. 

VII 

The  world  goes  round  with  its  sorrow  and  sin : 

Now  begin 
The  boys  to  plough  and  the  girls  to  spin. 

Gone  long  ago  the  hut  of  poles, 

Stumps  and  knolls  : 
A  frame-house  now  is  the  shelter  of  souls. 

By  the  river  are  farms  all  up  and  down, 

And  the  crown 
Of  its  steeples  shows  the  neighboring  town. 

There,  market  and  mill  for  the  farmer's  crops, 

Schools  and  shops, 
And  white  spires  over  the  orchard-tops. 

No  more,  to  the  terror  of  flocks  and  fowls, 

Hoot  the  owls 
In  the  woods  near  by,  nor  the  gaunt  wolf  howls. 

Where  the  antlered  buck  on  the  tender  boughs 

Used  to  browse, 
Sheep  come  to  shed  and  the  cattle  house. 

Where  the  panther  pounced  on  the  passing  fawn, 

Lies  the  lawn 
With  its  untracked  dew  in  the  chill  gray  dawn. 


A  HOME  IDYL  191 


Highways  are  braided  and  swamps  reclaimed  ; 

Towns  are  named ; 
Life  is  softened,  manners  are  tamed. 

For  youthful  culture  and  social  grace 

Soon  replace 
The  first  rude  life  of  a  pioneer  race ; 

And  men  are  polished,  through  act  and  speech, 

Each  by  each, 
As  pebbles  are  smoothed  on  the  rolling  beach, 

VIII 

The  farmer  has  hands  both  strong  and  skilled, 

Fair  fields  tilled, 
A  house  well  kept  and  big  barns  filled. 

In  the  porch  at  sunrise  he  will  stand, 

Flushed  and  tanned, 
And  view  well  pleased  his  prosperous  land. 

Crib  and  stable  and  pear-shaped  stacks, 

Stalls  and  racks, 
Have  come  in  the  track  of  the  fire  and  axe. 

Cider  in  cask  and  fruit  in  bin 

Are  laid  in 
For  the  gloomy  months  that  will  soon  begin. 

Sons  and  daughters,  a  gathering  throng, 

Fair  and  strong, 
Fill  the  old  house  with  life  and  song. 

With  threshing  and  spinning,  wheat  and  wool, 

House  and  school, 
Heads  are  busy  and  hands  are  full. 

Then  spelling-matches  and  evening  calls, 

Country  balls, 
And  sleighing-parties  when  the  snow  falls. 


192  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

IX 

Footprints  of  some  shy  lover  show, 

Where  they  go 
From  village  to  farm,  in  the  morning  snow. 

The  farmer,  florid  and  well-to-do, 

Blusters,  "  Who 
Is  that  bashful  boy  conies  here  to  woo  ?  " 

With  burning  blushes  and  down-dropt  eyes, 

Nellie  tries 
To  tell  her  trouble,  but  only  cries. 

The  simple  secret  which  poor  Nell 

Cannot  tell, 
The  anxious  mother  interprets  well ; 

And  out  of  a  wise  and  tender  heart 
Takes  the  part 
Of  her  child  with  gentle,  persuasive  art. 

"  Somebody  once  came  wooing  me, 
Shy  as  he ! 
They  may  be  poor,  but  so  were  we. 

" t  No  matter  for  wealth  and  grand  display,' 

You  would  say : 
1  We  can  be  happy ! '     Then  why  can't  they  ? 

"  We  are  proud,  who  were  humble  then ;  but,  oh ! 

High  or  low, 
Happier  days  we  shall  never  know  !  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  weU,  well !  "     He  yields  assent, 

But  must  vent 
His  grudging  fatherly  discontent, 

That  she,  their  child,  so  jealously  reared, 

So  endeared 
By  all  they  have  borne  for  her,  hoped  and  feared, 


A  HOME  IDYL  193 


From  them  and  their  love  should  turn  away, 

To  obey 
The  same  old  law,  in  the  same  old  way, 

And,  placing  her  hand  in  the  hand  of  a  man, 

Work  and  plan, 
Beginning  the  world  as  they  began. 

X 

He  yields  assent :  the  bright  heaven  clears 

As  she  hears ; 
The  red  dawn  breaks  through  her  doubts  and  fears. 

The  days  bring  signs  of  a  coming  change  : 
What  is  the  strange 
New  raiment  the  busy  hands  arrange  ? 

The  patterns  they  shape  and  the  seams  they  sew  ? 

In  the  glow 
Of  the  clear  dusk,  over  the  rosy  snow, 

The  lover  comes  to  the  farmer's  door ; 

Shy  no  more, 
Shy  and  abashed,  as  heretofore, 

But  manly  of  mien  and  open-browed, 

Happy  and  proud 
That  his  love  is  approved  and  his  suit  allowed. 

For  the  father,  who  frowned,  at  last  has  smiled, 

Reconciled, 
On  the  modest  youth  who  has  won  his  child. 

"  Right  sort  of  chap ;  I  like  his  way ! 

What  d'  ye  say  ? 
We  '11  have  him  at  dinner  Christmas  Day." 

XI 

A  wild  white  world  lies  all  around, 

Winter-bound ; 
River  and  roof  and  tree  and  ground. 


194  A  HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

And  the  windows  are  all,  at  Christmas-time, 

Thick  with  rime. 
But  the  poultry  is  fat  and  the  cider  prime. 

The  thankful  mother  brings  forth  her  best 

For  their  guest ; 
And  the  farmer  is  merry  with  tale  and  jest. 

Ruby  jellies  in  autumn  stored 

Crown  the  board ; 
The  goose  is  carved  and  the  cider  poured. 

The  house  shows  never  in  all  the  year 

Better  cheer, 
For  guest  more  honored  or  friend  more  dear. 

Here  the  doctor  has  sat,  and  as  he  quaffed, 

Praised  the  draught ; 

At  those  old  stories  the  parson  has  laughed. 

And  there  with  his  host  by  the  fire,  the  great 

Magistrate 
Has  puffed,  in  familiar  tete-a-tete. 

The  daughter  listens,  and  glad  is  she, 

Glad  to  see 
Father  and  lover  so  well  agree. 

She  listens  and  watches  with  joy  and  pride, 

When  beside 
The  glorious  chimney,  glowing  wide, 

They  bask  in  the  blaze  of  the  bounteous  oak, 

Bask  and  smoke, 
And  the  young  man  laughs  at  the  elder's  joke. 

Lover's  laughter  that  will  not  fail, 

Though  the  tale 
Be  sometimes  dull,  or  the  joke  be  stale. 


A  HOME  IDYL  195 


He  will  laugh  and  jest,  or  in  graver  mood 

Hearken  to  good 
Sagacious  counsel,  as  young  men  should. 

He  reasons  well ;  and  his  wit  is  found 

Sweet  and  sound ; 
He  can  pass  opinion  and  stand  his  ground. 

Feats  of  strength  and  of  foolery,  too, 

He  can  do, 
When  he  joins  in  the  games  of  the  younger  crew. 

He  opens  his  watch  for  the  boys  to  see, 

On  his  knee  ; 
And  sings  them  a  merry  song,  may  be. 

She  shares  his  triumph,  and  thrilled  to  tears 

Overhears 
Words  meant  for  only  the  mother's  ears. 

"  Well,  yes,"  says  the  farmer,  all  aglow, 

Speaking  low ; 
"  As  likely  a  fellow  as  any  I  know !  " 

To  her  pleased  fancy  the  sweetest  word 

Ever  heard  — 
His  praise  of  the  man  her  love  preferred ! 

And  well  may  parent  and  child  rejoice, 

When  the  voice 
Of  prudence  approves  the  young  heart's  choice ! 

XII 

In  spring  the  lovers  pass  elate 

Through  the  gate 
With  golden  hinges  and  bolts  of  fate. 

The  gate  swings  open  ;  the  gate  is  passed ; 

And  at  last, 
For  evil  or  good,  the  bolts  are  fast. 


196  A  HOME   IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

She  may  bid  farewell,  or  linger  still ; 

And  at  will 
Her  feet  may  often  recross  the  sill, 

And  tread  again  the  familiar  floor  ; 

Yet  a  door 
Has  closed  behind  her  for  evermore. 

XIII 

'T  is  the  exodus  of  youth  begun ; 
One  by  one, 
Now  a  daughter  and  now  a  son, 

They  are  wooed,  they  woo,  they  pass  elate 

Through  the  gate 
With  golden  hinges  and  bolts  of  fate. 

Some  fall  by  the  way :  alas,  for  those 

Shall  unclose 
The  door  of  the  Darkness  no  man  knows ! 

Two  ways  forever  the  house  of  breath 

Openeth, 
The  way  of  life  and  the  way  of  death. 

Once,  may  be  twice,  a  maid  shall  ride, 

Now  a  bride, 
Now  in  a  pale  robe  by  no  man's  side. 

Two  phantoms,  traced  upon  every  wall, 

Wait  for  all, 
A  shining  bridal,  a  low  black  pall. 

Though  blessed  the  dwellers  and  charmed  the  spot, 

Palace  or  cot, 
No  home  is  exempt  from  the  common  lot. 

XIV 

Laurels  in  life's  first  summer  glow 
Rarely  grow ; 
But  honors  thicken  on  heads  of  snow. 


A  HOME  IDYL  197 


There  is  a  lustre  of  swords  and  shields, 

Well-f  ought  fields ; 
The  power  the  statesman  or  patriot  wields  ; 

The  glory  that  gleams  from  righted  wrongs, 

Or  belongs 
To  the  prophet's  words  or  the  poet's  songs,  — 

High  thoughts  that  shine  like  the  Pleiades 

Over  seas ! 
But  worthy  of  worship,  even  with  these, 

Is  the  fame  of  an  honest  citizen, 

Now  and  then ; 
The  good  opinion  of  plain  good  men. 

The  farmer,  solid  and  dignified, 

Through  the  wide, 
Fair  valley  on  many  affairs  shall  ride : 

Through  highway  and  by-way,  country  and  town, 

Up  and  down, 
He  shall  ride  in  the  light  of  his  own  renown. 

In  the  halls  of  state,  with  outstretched  hand, 

He  shall  stand, 
And  counsel  the  Solons  of  the  land. 

Neighbors,  wearying  of  the  law's 

Quirks  and  flaws, 
To  his  good  sense  submit  their  cause. 

Their  cause  with  wary,  impartial  eye 

He  will  try, 
And  many  a  snarl  of  the  law  untie. 

If  simple  and  upright  men  there  be, 

Such  is  he : 
A  life  like  a  broad,  green,  sheltering  tree, 


198  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

For  shade  in  the  wayside  heat  and  dust : 

All  men  trust 
His  virtue,  and  know  his  judgments  just. 

XV 

Not  all  the  honors  that  come  with  age 

Can  assuage 
The  pains  of  its  long  late  pilgrimage. 

The  world's  fair  offerings,  great  and  small, 

What  are  they  all, 
When  the  heart  has  losses  and  griefs  befall  ? 

One  by  one  to  the  parents  came 

Babes  to  name  : 
One  by  one  they  have  passed  the  same. 

Hither  and  thither,  each  to  his  own, 
All  have  flown, 
Like  birds  from  the  nest  when  their  wings  have  grown. 

Beginning  again  the  same  old  strife ; 

Husband  and  wife 
Twisting  the  strands  of  the  cord  of  life ; 

Weaving  ever  the  endless  chain, 

Pleasure  and  pain, 
The  gladness  of  action,  the  joy  of  gain. 

Hither  and  thither,  over  the  zone, 

All  have  flown, 
Like  thistledown  by  the  four  winds  blown. 

One  has  power,  and  one  has  wealth 

Got  by  stealth : 
Happiest  they  who  have  hope  and  health. 

Into  the  farther  and  wilder  West 

Some  have  pressed; 
Some  are  weary,  and  some  are  at  rest. 


A   HOME  IDYL  199 


Hither  and  thither,  like  seed  that  is  sown, 

Each  to  his  own ! 
What  pangs  of  parting  these  doors  have  known ! 

The  tears  of  the  young  who  go  their  way, 

Last  a  day ; 
But  the  grief  is  long  of  the  old  who  stay 

Within  these  gates,  where  they  have  been  left, 

Long  bereft, 
With  fond  ties  broken  and  old  hearts  cleft, 

They  have  stood,  and  gazing  across  the  snow, 

Felt  the  woe 
Of  seeing  the  last  of  their  children  go. 

Now  all  are  scattered,  like  leaves  that  are  strewn : 

Through  the  lone, 
Forsaken  boughs  let  the  wild  winds  moan ! 

XVI 

But  new  life  comes  as  the  old  life  goes, 

Life  yet  glows ! 
In  children's  children  the  fresh  tide  flows. 

The  heart  of  the  homestead  warms  to  the  core, 

When  once  more 
Little  feet  patter  on  path  and  floor. 

In  the  best-wrought  life  there  is  still  a  reft, 

Something  left 
Forever  unfinished,  a  broken  weft. 

But  merciful  Nature  makes  amends, 

When  she  sends 
Youth,  that  takes  up  our  raveled  ends, 

Our  hopes,  our  loves,  that  they  be  not  quite 

Lost  to  sight, 
But  leave  behind  us  a  fringe  of  light. 


200  A  HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

XVII 

Age  is  a  garden  of  faded  flowers, 

Ruined  bowers, 
Peopled  by  cares  and  failing  powers ; 

Where  Pain  with  his  crutch  and  lonely  Grief 

Grope  with  brief, 
Slow  steps  over  withered  stalk  and  leaf. 

But  the  love  of  children  is  like  some  rare 

Heavenly  air, 
That  makes  long  Indian  summer  there  ; 

A  youth  in  age,  when  the  skies  yet  glow, 

Soft  winds  blow, 
And  hearts  keep  glad  under  locks  of  snow. 

XVIII 
So  the  old  couple  long  abide 

In  the  wide 
Old-fashioned  house  by  the  river  side. 

Is  life  but  a  pool  of  trouble  and  sin  ? 
Theirs  has  been 
As  a  cup  to  pour  Heaven's  mercies  in  I 

Happy  are  they  who,  calm  and  chaste, 

Freely  taste 
Each  day's  brimmed  measure,  nor  haste  nor  waste  ; 

Who  love  not  the  world  too  well,  nor  hate ; 

But  await 
With  faith  the  coming  of  unknown  fate ; 

Pleased  amid  simple  sights  and  sounds, 

In  these  bounds 
Of  a  life  which  Infinite  Life  surrounds  I 


A  HOME  IDYL  201 


With  doubt  and  bitterness  and  ennui, 

Life  can  be 
But  an  ashy  fruit  by  the  heart's  Dead  Sea. 

To  cheerful  endeavor  and  sacrifice 

It  shall  rise 
Each  day  forever  a  new  surprise. 

XIX 

Now  daughters  and  sons,  from  far  and  near, 

Reappear, 
And  the  day  of  all  golden  days  is  here. 

Experienced  matrons,  world-wise  men 

Come  again : 
They  are  seven  to-day  who  once  were  ten. 

Are  these  the  children  who  left  your  door  ? 

Look  once  more  ! 
O  mother  !  are  these  the  babes  you  bore  ? 

Where  's  she,  who  was  once  so  fresh  and  fair  ? 

Nell  is  there, 
A  grandmother  now  with  silvered  hair  ! 

And  is  this  the  lover  who  came  to  woo  ? 

Now  he  too 
Is  solid  and  florid  and  well-to-do. 

One  has  acres  and  railroad  shares, 
But  no  heirs ; 
One,  a  house  full  of  children  and  poor  man's  cares. 

But  all  distinction  in  life  to-day 

Falls  away, 
Like  costume  dropped  with  the  parts  they  play. 

Here  all,  whatever  success  they  claim, 
Rank  the  same  ; 
And  the  half-forgotten  household  name, 


202  A  HOME   IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

As  in  old  days,  rings  out  again  : 

Now  as  then 
It  is  Tom  and  Nellie  and  Sallie  and  Ben. 

All  smiles,  all  tears,  through  a  shining  haze, 

In  a  maze 
Of  wonder  and  joy,  the  old  folks  gaze. 

Three  generations  around  them  stand, 

Hand  in  hand, 
As  the  petals  of  some  vast  flower  expand. 

Sons,  daughters,  hushands  and  wives  inclose 

Younger  rows, 
Children's  children,  and  children  of  those  : 

Whose  children  may  yet  with  a  living  girth 

Circle  earth : 
Oh,  infinite  marvel  of  life  and  birth  ! 

This  is  the  crowning  hour  that  cheers 

Failing  years, 
This  is  the  solace  of  many  tears. 

Past  sorrows,  viewed  from  that  sunset  height 

Fade  from  sight, 
Or  glimmer  far  off  in  softened  light. 

Remembered  mercies  and  joys  increase, 

Trials  cease, 
And  all  is  blessedness,  all  is  peace. 

XX 

The  world  goes  round  with  its  hopes  and  fears, 

Joys  and  tears : 
'T  is  Christmas  again,  in  the  latter  years. 

To  the  white  graveyard,  through  the  snow, 

Dark  and  slow, 
I  see  a  solemn  procession  go. 


A  HOME   IDYL  203 


Where  first  he  hollowed  the  mould  and  piled, 

In  the  wild 
Great  woods,  the  mound  of  his  little  child,  — 

Softly  muffled  to  sight  and  tread, 

Lies  outspread 
The  field  of  the  unremembering  dead. 

Neighbor  with  neighbor  sleeps  below, 

Foe  with  foe, 
Their  quarrels  forgotten  long  ago. 

Once  more,  with  its  burden  that  goes  not  back, 

Moves  the  black 
Far-followed  hearse,  on  its  frequent  track, 

To  the  voiceless  bourne  of  all  the  vast 

Peopled  past : 
Thither,  from  all  life's  ways  at  last, 

From  all  its  raptures  and  all  its  woes, 

Thither  goes 
The  old  patriarch  to  his  long  repose. 

Close  by  where  children  and  wife  are  laid, 

Leans  a  spade 
By  the  dark  heaped  earth  of  a  grave  just  made. 

The  heavily  laden  firs,  snow-crowned, 

Droop  around, 
With  tent-like  branches  that  sweep  the  ground. 

The  slow  procession  makes  halt  amid 

Slabs  half-hid, 
Snow-mantled  tablet  and  pyramid  ; 

Whose  fairest  marble  looks  poor  and  pale 

By  the  frail 
And  careless  sculpture  of  snow  and  gale. 


204  A  HOME   IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  trestles  are  set,  the  bier  they  place 

In  mid-space, 
And  lift  the  lid  from  the  upturned  face,  — 

Still  smiling,  as  when  the  soul  took  flight 

In  a  bright 
Last  vision  of  sudden  angelic  light. 

Where,  scheming  world,  are  your  triumphs  now  ? 

All  things  bow 
Before  Death's  pallid  and  awful  brow. 

Hearts  are  humbled  and  heads  are  bare, 

While  the  prayer 
Is  wafted  far  on  the  wintry  air. 

Friends  gather  and  pass,  and  tears  are  shed 

Over  the  dead : 
They  gather  and  pass  with  reverent  tread. 

They  have  looked  their  last  and  turned  away ; 

From  the  day 
Veil  forever  the  face  of  clay  ! 

The  glory  that  gilds  this  wondrous  ball, 

Lighting  all, 
No  more  forever  on  him  shall  fall. 

The  throng  moves  outward ;  clangs  the  great 

Iron  gate : 
All 's  ended :  lonely  and  desolate 

Appears,  in  the  white  and  silent  ground, 
One  dark  mound ; 
And  the  world  goes  round,  the  world  goes  round. 


OLD  ROBIN  205 


OLD  KOBIN 

SELL  old  Robin,  do  you  say  ?     Well,  I  reckon  not  to-day  ! 

I  have  let  you  have  your  way  with  the  land, 

With  the  meadows  and  the  fallows,  draining  swamps  and  filling  hollows, 

And  you  're  mighty  deep,  Dan  Alvord !  but  the  sea  itself  has  shallows, 

And  there  are  things  that  you  don't  understand. 

You  are  not  so  green,  of  course,  as  to  feed  a  worn-out  horse, 
Out  of  pity  or  remorse,  very  long ! 

But  as  sure  as  I  am  master  of  a  shed  and  bit  of  pasture, 
Not  for  all  the  wealth,  I  warn  you,  of  a  Vanderbilt  or  Astor, 
Will  I  do  old  Robin  there  such  a  wrong. 

He  is  old  and  lame,  alas  !     Don't  disturb  him  as  you  pass  ! 
Let  him  lie  there  on  the  grass,  while  he  may, 
And  enjoy  the  summer  weather,  free  forever  from  his  tether. 
Sober  veteran  as  you  see  him,  we  were  young  and  gay  together : 
It  was  I  who  rode  him  first  —  ah,  the  day ! 

I  was  just  a  little  chap,  in  first  pantaloons  and  cap, 

And  I  left  my  mother's  lap,  at  the  door  ; 

And  the  reins  hung  loose  and  idle,  as  we  let  him  prance  and  sidle,—- 

For  my  father  walked  beside  me  with  his  hand  upon  the  bridle : 

Yearling  colt  and  boy  of  five,  hardly  more. 

See  him  start  and  prick  his  ears  !  see  how  knowingly  he  leers  ! 
I  believe  he  overhears  every  word, 

And  once  more,  it  may  be,  fancies  that  he  carries  me  and  prances, 
While  my  mother  from  the  doorway  follows  us  with  happy  glances. 
You  may  laugh,  but  —  well,  of  course,  it 's  absurd  ! 

Poor  old  Robin  !  does  he  know  how  I  used  to  cling  and  crow, 
As  I  rode  him  to  and  fro  and  around  ? 

Every  day  as  we  grew  older,  he  grew  gentler,  I  grew  bolder, 
Till,  a  hand  upon  the  bridle  and  a  touch  upon  his  shoulder, 
I  could  vault  into  my  seat  at  a  bound. 

Ah,  the  nag  you  so  disdain,  with  his  scanty  tail  and  mane, 
And  that  ridge-pole  to  shed  rain,  called  a  back, 


206  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Then  was  taper-limbed  and  glossy,  —  so  superb  a  creature  was  he  ! 
And  he  arched  his  neck,  so  graceful,  and  he  tossed  his  tail,  so  saucy, 
Like  a  proudly  waving  plume  long  and  black  ! 

He  was  light  of  hoof  and  fleet,  I  was  supple,  firm  in  seat, 

And  no  sort  of  thing  with  feet,  anywhere 

In  the  country,  could  come  nigh  us  ;  scarce  the  swallows  could  outfly  us ; 

But  the  planet  spun  beneath  us,  and  the  sky  went  whizzing  by  us, 

In  the  hurricane  we  made  of  the  air. 

Then  I  rode  away  to  school  in  the  mornings  fresh  and  cool ; 
Till  one  day,  beside  the  pool  where  he  drank, 
Leaning  on  my  handsome  trotter,  glancing  up  across  the  water 
To  the  judge's  terraced  orchard,  there  I  saw  the  judge's  daughter, 
In  a  frame  of  sunny  boughs  on  the  bank. 

Looking  down  on  horse  and  boy,  smiling  down,  so  sweet  and  coy, 
That  I  thrilled  with  bashful  joy,  when  she  said,  — 

Voice  as  sweet  as  a  canary's,  —  "  Would  you  like  to  get  some  cherries  ? 
You  are  welcome  as  the  birds  are  ;  there  are  nice  ones  on  this  terrace  ; 
These  are  white-hearts  in  the  tree  overhead." 

Was  it  Robin  more  than  I,  that  had  pleased  her  girlish  eye 

As  she  saw  us  prancing  by  ?  half  I  fear  ! 

Off  she  ran,  but  not  a  great  way  :  white-hearts,  black-hearts,  sweethearts 

straightway ! 

Boy  and  horse  were  soon  familiar  with  the  hospitable  gateway, 
And  a  happy  fool  was  I  —  for  a  year. 

Lord  forgive  an  only  child  !     All  the  blessings  on  me  piled 
Had  but  helped  to  make  me  wild  and  perverse. 
What  is  there  in  honest  horses  that  should  lead  to  vicious  courses  ? 
Racing,  betting,  idling,  tippling,  wasted  soon  my  best  resources  : 
Small  beginnings  led  to  more  —  and  to  worse. 

Father  ?  happy  in  his  grave  !     Praying  mothers  cannot  save  ;  — 
Mine  ?  a  flatterer  and  a  slave  to  her  son  ! 

Often  Mary  urged  and  pleaded,  and  the  good  judge  interceded, 
Counseled,  blamed,  insisted,  threatened :  tears  and  threats  were  all  un 
heeded, 
And  I  answered  him  in  wrath  :  it  was  done  ! 


OLD   ROBIN  207 


Vainly  Mary  sobbed  and  clung ;  in  a  fury  out  I  flung, 

To  old  Robin's  back  I  sprung,  and  away ! 

No  repentance,  no  compassion  ;  on  I  plunged  in  headlong  fashion, 

In  a  night  of  rain  and  tempest,  with  a  fierce,  despairing  passion,  — 

Through  the  blind  and  raving  gusts,  mad  as  they. 

Bad  to  worse  was  now  my  game  :  my  poor  mother,  still  the  same, 

Tried  to  shield  me,  to  reclaim  —  did  her  best. 

Creditors  began  to  clamor  ;  I  could  only  lie  and  stammer  ; 

All  we  had  was  pledged  for  payment,  all  was  sold  beneath  the  hammer — 

My  old  Robin  there,  along  with  the  rest. 

Laughing,  jeering,  I  stood  by,  with  a  devil  in  my  eye, 
Watching  those  who  came  to  buy :  what  was  done 
I  had  then  no  power  to  alter ;  I  looked  on  and  would  not  falter, 
Till  the  last  man  had  departed,  leading  Robin  by  the  halter ; 
Then  I  flew  into  the  loft  for  my  gun. 

I  would  shoot  him !  no,  I  said,  I  would  kill  myself  instead  ! 

To  a  lonely  wood  I  fled,  on  a  hill. 

Hating  Heaven  and  all  its  mercies  for  my  follies  and  reverses, 

There  I  plunged  in  self-abasement,  there  I  burrowed  in  self -curses ; 

But  the  dying  I  put  off  —  as  men  will. 

As  I  wandered  back  at  night,  something,  far  off,  caught  my  sight, 
Dark  against  the  western  light,  in  the  lane ; 

Coming  to  the  bars  to  meet  me  —  some  illusion  sent  to  cheat  me ! 
No,  't  was  Robin,  my  own  Robin,  dancing,  whinnying  to  greet  me ! 
With  a  small  white  billet  sewed  to  his  mane. 

The  small  missive  I  unstrung  —  on  old  Robin's  neck  I  hung, 

There  I  cried  and  there  I  clung !  while  I  read, 

In  a  hand  I  knew  was  Mary's  —  "  One  whose  kindness  never  varies 

Sends  this  gift :  "  no  name  was  written,  but  a  painted  bunch  of  cherries 

On  the  dainty  little  note  smiled  instead. 

There  he  lies  now  !  lank  and  lame,  stiff  of  limb  and  gaunt  of  frame, 

But  to  her  and  me  the  same  dear  old  boy  ! 

Never  steed,  I  think,  was  fairer  !     Still  I  see  him  the  proud  bearer 

Of  my  pardon  and  salvation ;  and  he  yet  shall  be  a  sharer  — 

As  a  poor  dumb  beast  may  share  —  in  my  joy. 


208  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

It  is  strange  that  by  the  time  I,  a  man,  am  in  my  prime, 
He  is  guilty  of  the  crime  of  old  age  ! 

But  no  sort  of  circumvention  can  deprive  him  of  his  pension : 
He  shall  have  his  rack  and  pasture,  with  a  little  kind  attention, 
And  some  years  of  comfort  yet,  I  '11  engage. 

By  long  service  and  good-will  he  has  earned  them,  and  he  still 
Has  a  humble  place  to  fill,  as  you  know. 

Now  my  little  shavers  ride  him,  sometimes  two  or  three  astride  him  ; 
Mary  watches  from  the  doorway  while  I  lead  or  walk  beside  him  ;  — 
But  his  dancing  all  was  done  long  ago. 

See  that  merry,  toddling  lass  tripping  to  and  fro,  to  pass 

Little  handfuls  of  green  grass,  which  he  chews, 

And  the  two  small  urchins  trying  to  climb  up  and  ride  him  lying ; 

And,  hard-hearted  as  you  are,  Dan,  —  eh  ?  you  don't  say !  you  are  crying  ? 

Well,  an  old  horse,  after  all,  has  his  use ! 


PLEASANT  STREET 

'T  is  Pleasant,  indeed, 

As  the  letters  read 
On  the  guideboard  at  the  crossing. 

Over  the  street 

The  branches  meet, 
Gently  swaying  and  tossing. 

Through  its  leafy  crown 

The  sun  strikes  down 
In  wavering  flakes  and  flashes, 

As  winding  it  goes 

Betwixt  tall  rows 
Of  maples  and  elms  and  ashes. 

There,  high  aloof 

In  the  gilded  roof, 
Are  the  pewee  and  vireo  winging 

Their  fitful  flight 

In  the  flickering  light ; 
The  hangbird's  basket  swinging. 


PLEASANT  STREET  209 

By  many  a  great 

And  small  estate, 
And  orchard  cool  and  pleasant, 

And  croquet-ground, 

The  way  sweeps  round, 
In  many  a  curve  and  crescent. 

In  crescents  and  curves 

It  sways  and  swerves, 
Like  the  flow  of  a  stately  river. 

On  carriage  and  span, 

On  maiden  and  man, 
The  dappling  sunbeams  quiver. 

It  winds  between 

Broad  slopes  of  the  green 
Wood-mantled  and  shaggy  highland, 

And  shores  that  rise 

From  the  lake,  which  lies 
Below,  with  its  one  fair  island. 

The  long  days  dawn 

Over  lake  and  lawn, 
And  set  on  the  hills  ;  and  at  even 

Above  it  beam 

All  the  lights  that  gleam 
In  the  starry  streets  of  heaven. 

But  not  for  these, 

Lake,  lawns  and  trees, 
And  gardens  gay  in  their  season,  — 

Its  praise  I  sing 

For  a  sweeter  thing, 
And  a  far  more  human  reason. 

Children  I  meet 

In  house  and  street, 
Pretty  maids  and  happy  mothers, 

All  fair  to  see  ; 

But  one  to  me 
More  beautiful  than  all  others  ! 


210  A   HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

One  whose  pure  face, 

With  its  glancing  grace, 
Makes  every  one  her  lover  ; 

Charming  the  sight 

With  a  sweeter  light 
Than  falls  from  the  boughs  above  her. 

Though  on  each  side 
Are  the  homes  of  pride, 

And  of  beauty,  —  here  and  there  one,  — 
The  dearest  of  all, 
Though  simple  and  small, 

Is  the  dwelling  of  my  fair  one. 

You  will  marvel  that  such 

A  gay  sprite  so  much 
Of  a  grave  man's  life  engages, 

And  smile  when  I 

Confess  with  a  sigh 
The  differences  in  our  ages. 

Must  love  depart 
With  our  youth,  and  the  heart, 
As  we  grow  in  years,  become  colder  ? 
My  love  is  but  four, 
While  I  am  twoscore, 
And  may  be  a  trifle  older. 

With  her  smile  and  her  glance, 
And  her  curls  that  dance, 

No  one  could  ever  resist  her. 
If  anywhere 
There  's  another  so  fair, 

Why,  that  must  be  her  sister. 

With  screams  of  glee 

At  the  sight  of  me, 
Together  forth  they  sally 

From  under  the  boughs 

That  screen  the  house 
That  stands  beside  the  valley. 


PLEASANT  STREET  211 

It  is  scenes  like  these, 

As  they  clasp  my  knees 
And  clamor  for  kiss  and  present, 

That  still  must  make 

Our  street  by  the  lake 
More  pleasant  —  oh?  most  pleasant ! 

Ride  merrily  past, 

Glide  smoothly  and  fast, 
O  throngs  of  wealth  and  of  pleasure  ! 

While  sober  and  slow 

On  foot  I  go, 
Enjoying  my  humble  leisure. 

O  world,  before 
My  lowly  door 
Daily  coming  and  going  ; 
O  tide  of  life, 

0  stream  of  strife, 
Forever  ebbing  and  flowing  ! 

By  the  show  and  the  shine 
No  eye  can  divine 
If  you  be  fair  or  hateful ; 

1  only  know, 

As  you  come  and  go, 
That  I  am  glad  and  grateful. 

So  here,  well  back 

From  the  shaded  track, 
By  the  curve  of  its  greenest  crescent, 

To-day  I  swing 

In  my  hammock,  and  sing 
The  praise  of  the  street  named  Pleasant. 


212      A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
MENOTOMY  LAKE1 

THERE  's  nothing  so  sweet  as  a  morning  in  May, 
And  what  is  so  fair  as  the  gleam  of  glad  water  ? 

Spring  leaps  from  the  brow  of  old  Winter  to-day, 
Full-formed,  like  the  fabled  Olympian's  daughter. 

A  breath  out  of  heaven  came  down  in  the  night, 
Dispelling  the  gloom  of  the  sullen  northeasters  ; 

The  air  is  all  balm,  and  the  lake  is  as  bright 

As  some  bird  in  brave  plumage  that  ripples  and  glisters. 

The  enchantment  is  broken  which  bound  her  so  long, 
And  Beauty,  that  slumbered,  awakes  and  remembers  ; 

Love  bursts  into  being,  joy  breaks  into  song, 

In  a  glory  of  blossoms  life  flames  from  its  embers. 

I  row  by  steep  woodlands,  I  rest  on  my  oars 

Under  banks  deep-embroidered  with  grass  and  young  clover  ; 
Far  round,  in  and  out,  wind  the  beautiful  shores  — 

The  lake  in  the  midst,  with  the  blue  heavens  over. 

The  world  in  its  mirror  hangs  dreamily  bright ; 

The  patriarch  clouds  in  curled  raiment,  that  lazily 
Lift  their  bare  foreheads  in  dazzling  white  light, 

In  that  deep  under-sky  glimmer  softly  and  hazily. 

Far  over  the  trees,  or  in  glimpses  between, 

Peer  the  steeples  and  half-hidden  roofs  of  the  village. 

Here  lie  the  broad  slopes  in  their  loveliest  green ; 

There,  crested  with  orchards,  or  checkered  with  tillage. 

There  the  pines,  tall  and  black,  in  the  blue  morning  air  ; 

The  warehouse  of  ice,  a  vast  windowless  castle  ; 
The  ash  and  the  sycamore,  shadeless  and  bare  ; 

The  elm-boughs  in  blossom,  the  willows  in  tassel. 

In  golden  effulgence  of  leafage  and  blooms, 
Far  along,  overleaning,  the  sunshiny  willows 

1  The  Indian  name  for  Arlington  Lake,  or  Spy  Pond. 


MENOTOMY  LAKE  213 


Advance  like  a  surge  from  the  grove's  deeper  glooms,  — 
The  first  breaking  swell  of  the  summer's  green  billows. 

Scarce  a  tint  upon  hornbeam  or  sumach  appears, 
The  arrowhead  tarries,  the  lily  still  lingers  ; 

But  the  flag-leaves  are  piercing  the  wave  with  their  spears, 
And  the  fern  is  unfolding  its  infantile  fingers. 

Down  through  the  dark  evergreens  slants  the  mild  light : 
I  know  every  cove,  every  moist  indentation, 

Where  mosses  and  violets  ever  invite 

To  some  still  unexperienced,  fresh  exploration. 

The  mud-turtle,  sunning  his  shield  on  a  log, 

Slides  off  with  a  splash  as  my  paddle  approaches  ; 

Beside  the  green  island  I  silence  the  frog, 

In  warm,  sunny  shallows  I  startle  the  roaches. 

I  glide  under  branches  where  rank  above  rank 

From  the  lake  grow  the  trees,  bending  over  its  bosom ; 

Or  lie  in  my  boat  on  some  flower-starred  bank, 

And  drink  in  delight  from  each  bird-song  and  blossom. 

Above  me  the  robins  are  building  their  nest ; 

The  finches  are  here,  —  singing  throats  by  the  dozen  ; 
The  catbird,  complaining,  or  mocking  the  rest ; 

The  wing-spotted  blackbird,  sweet  bobolink's  cousin. 

With  rapture  I  watch,  as  I  loiter  beneath, 

The  small  silken  tufts  on  the  boughs  of  the  beeches 

Each  leaf-cluster  parting  its  delicate  sheath, 
As  it  gropingly,  yearningly  opens  and  reaches, 

Like  soft-winged  things  coming  forth  from  their  shrouds. 

The  bees  have  forsaken  the  maples'  red  flowers 
And  gone  to  the  willows,  whose  luminous  clouds 

Drop  incense  and  gold  in  impalpable  showers. 

The  bee-peopled  odorous  boughs  overhead, 

With  fragrance  and  murmur  the  senses  delighting  ; 


214  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  lake-side,  gold-laced  with  the  pollen  they  shed 
At  the  touch  of  a  breeze  or  a  small  bird  alighting ; 

The  myriad  tremulous  pendants  that  stream 

From  the  hair  of  the  birches,  —  O  group  of  slim  graces, 

That  see  in  the  water  your  silver  limbs  gleam, 
And  lean  undismayed  over  infinite  spaces  !  — 

The  bold  dandelions  embossing  the  grass ; 

On  upland  and  terrace  the  fruit-gardens  blooming  ; 
The  wavering,  winged,  happy  creatures  that  pass,  — 

Pale  butterflies  flitting,  and  bumble-bees  booming  ; 

The  crowing  of  cocks  and  the  bellow  of  kine ; 

Light,  color,  and  all  the  delirious  lyrical 
Bursts  of  bird-voices  ;  life  filled  with  new  wine,  — 

Every  motion  and  change  in  this  beautiful  miracle, 

Springtime  and  Maytime,  —  revive  in  my  heart 

All  the  springs  of  my  youth,  with  their  sweetness  and  splendor 
0  years  that  so  softly  take  wing  and  depart ! 

0  perfume !     O  memories  pensive  and  tender  ! 

As  lightly  I  glide  between  island  and  shore, 

1  seem  like  an  exile,  a  wandering  spirit, 
Returned  to  the  land  where  't  is  May  evermore, 

A  moment  revisiting,  hovering  near  it. 

Stray  scents  from  afar,  breathing  faintly  around, 
Are  something  I  've  known  in  another  existence ; 

As  I  pause,  as  I  listen,  each  image,  each  sound, 
Is  softened  by  glamour,  or  mellowed  by  distance. 

From  the  hill-side,  no  longer  discordant  or  harsh, 
Comes  the  cry  of  the  peacock,  the  jubilant  cackle  ; 

And  sweetly,  how  sweetly,  by  meadow  and  marsh, 
Sounds  the  musical  jargon  of  blue  jay  and  grackle  ! 

O  Earth  !  till  I  find  more  of  heaven  than  this, 

I  will  cling  to  your  bosom  with  perfect  contentment. 


THE  INDIAN   CAMP  215 

0  water  !  O  light !  sky-enfolding  abyss  ! 

I  yield  to  the  spell  of  your  wondrous  enchantment. 

1  drift  on  the  dream  of  a  lake  in  my  boat ; 

With  my  oar-beat  two  pinion-like  shadows  keep  measure  ; 
I  poise  and  gaze  down  through  the  depths  as  I  float, 
Seraphic,  sustained  between  azure  and  azure. 

I  pause  in  a  rift,  by  the  edge  of  the  world, 

That  divides  the  blue  gulfs  of  a  double  creation  ; 

Till,  lo,  the  illusion  is  shattered  and  whirled 

In  a  thousand  bright  rings  by  my  skiff's  oscillation ! 


THE  INDIAN   CAMP 

OUT  from  the  Northern  forest,  dim  and  vast ; 

Out  from  the  mystery 
Of  yet  more  shadowy  times,  a  pathless  past, 

Untracked  by  History ; 

Strangely  he  comes  into  our  commonplace, 

Prosaic  present ; 
And,  like  a  faded  star  beside  the  bay's 

Silvery  crescent, 

Upon  the  curved  shore  of  the  shining  lake 

His  tent  he  pitches  — 
A  modern  chief,  in  white  man's  wide-awake 

And  Christian  breeches. 

Reckless  of  title-deeds  and  forms  of  law, 

He  freely  chooses 
Whatever  slope  or  wood-side  suits  his  squaw 

And  lithe  papooses. 

Why  not  ?     The  owners  of  the  land  were  red, 

Holding  dominion 
Wherever  ranged  the  foot  of  beast  or  spread 

The  eagle's  pinion  ; 


216  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  privileged,  until  they  welcomed  here 
Their  fair-faced  brother, 

To  hunt  at  will,  sometimes  the  bear  and  deer, 
Sometimes  each  other. 

How  often  to  this  lake,  down  yonder  dark 

And  sinuous  river, 
The  painted  warriors  sailed,  in  fleets  of  bark, 

With  bow  and  quiver ! 

This  lank-haired  chieftain  is  their  child,  and  heir 

To  a  great  nation, 
And  well  might  fix,  you  fancy,  anywhere 

His  habitation. 

Has  he  too  come  to  hunt  the  bear  and  deer, 

To  trap  the  otter  ? 
Alas  !  there  's  no  such  creature  stirring  here, 

On  land  or  water. 

To  have  a  little  traffic  with  the  town, 

Once  more  he  chooses 
The  ancient  camping-place,  and  brings  his  brown 

Squaw  and  papooses. 

No  tent  was  here  in  yester-evening's  hush ; 

But  the  day,  dawning, 
Transfigures  with  a  faint,  a  roseate  flush, 

His  dingy  awning. 

The  camp-smoke  curling  in  the  misty  light, 

And  canvas  slanting 
To  the  green  earth,  all  this  is  something  quite 

Fresh  and  enchanting ; 

Viewed  not  too  closely,  lest  the  glancing  wings, 

The  iridescent 
Soft  colors  of  romance,  give  place  to  things 

Not  quite  so  pleasant. 

The  gossamers  glistening  on  the  dewy  turf ; 
The  lisp  and  tinkle 


THE  INDIAN  CAMP  217 

Of  flashing  foam-bells,  where  the  placid  surf 
Breaks  on  the  shingle ; 

The  shimmering  birches  by  the  rippling  cove ; 

A  fresh  breeze  bringing 
The  fragrance  of  the  pines,  and  in  the  grove 

The  thrushes  singing, 

Make  the  day  sweet.     But  other  sight  and  sound 

And  odor  fill  it, 
You  find,  as  you  approach  their  camping-ground 

And  reeking  skillet. 

The  ill-fed  curs  rush  out  with  wolfish  bark  ; 

And,  staring  at  you, 
A  slim  young  girl  leaps  up,  smooth-limbed  and  dark 

As  a  bronze  statue. 

A  bare  papoose  about  the  camp-fire  poles 

Toddles  at  random ; 
And  on  the  ground  there,  by  the  blazing  coals, 

Sits  the  old  grandam. 

Wrinkled  and  lean,  her  skirt  a  matted  rag, 

In  plaited  collar 
Of  beads  and  hedgehog  quills,  the  smoke-dried  hag 

Squats  in  her  squalor, 

Dressing  a  marmot  which  the  boys  have  shot ; 

Which  done,  she  seizes 
With  tawny  claws,  and  drops  into  the  pot, 

The  raw,  red  pieces. 

The  chief  meanwhile  has  in  some  mischief  found 

A  howling  urchin, 
Who  knows  too  well,  alas  !  that  he  is  bound 

To  have  a  birching. 

The  stoic  of  the  woods,  stern  and  unmoved, 

Lays  the  light  lash  on, 
Tickling  the  lively  ankles  in  approved 

Fatherly  fashion. 


218  A   HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

The  boy  slinks  off,  a  wiser  boy,  indeed  — 

Wiser  and  sorrier. 
And  is  this  he,  the  chief  of  whom  we  read, 

The  Indian  warrior  ? 

Where  hangs  his  tomahawk  ?  the  scalps  of  tall 
Braves  struck  in  battle  ? 

Why,  bless  you,  sir,  his  band  is  not  at  all 
That  kind  of  cattle ! 

In  ceasing  to  be  savages,  they  chose 

To  put  away  things 
That  suit  the  savage  :  even  those  hickory  bows 

Are  merely  playthings. 

For  common  use  he  rather  likes,  I  think, 
The  white  man's  rifle, 

Hatchet,  and  blanket ;  and  of  white  man's  drink, 
I  fear,  a  trifle. 

With  neighbors'  scalp-locks,  and  such  bagatelles, 

He  never  meddles. 
Bows,  baskets,  and  I  hardly  know  what  else, 

He  makes  and  peddles. 

Quite  civilized,  you  see.     Is  he  aware 

Of  his  beatitude  ? 
Does  he,  for  all  the  white  man's  love  and  care, 

Feel  proper  gratitude  ? 

Feathers  and  war-paint  he  no  more  enjoys ; 

But  he  is  prouder 
Of  long-tailed  coat,  and  boots,  and  corduroys, 

And  white  man's  powder. 

And  he  can  trade  his  mink  and  musquash  skins, 

Baskets  of  wicker, 
For  white  man's  trinkets  ;  bows  and  moccasins 

For  white  man's  liquor. 


THE  INDIAN  CAMP  219 

His  Manitou  is  passing,  with  each  strange, 

Wild  superstition : 
He  has  the  Indian  agent  for  a  change, 

And  Indian  mission. 

He  owns  his  cabin  and  potato  patch, 

And  farms  a  little. 
Industrious  ?     Quite,  when  there  are  fish  to  catch, 

Or  shafts  to  whittle. 

Though  all  about  him,  like  a  rising  deep, 

Flows  the  white  nation, 
He  has  —  and  while  it  pleases  us  may  keep  — 

His  Reservation. 

Placed  with  his  tribe  in  such  a  paradise, 

'T  is  past  believing 
That  they  should  still  be  given  to  petty  vice, 

Treachery,  and  thieving. 

Incentives  to  renounce  their  Indian  tricks 

Are  surely  ample, 
With  white  man's  piety  and  politics 

For  their  example. 

But  are  they  happier  now  than  when,  some  night, 

The  chosen  quotas 
Of  tufted  warriors  sallied  forth  to  fight 

The  fierce  Dakotas  ? 

Still  under  that  sedate,  impassive  port, 

That  dull  demeanor, 
A  spirit  waits,  a  demon  sleeps  — in  short, 

The  same  red  sinner ! 

Within  those  inky  pools,  his  eyes,  I  see 

Revenge  and  pillage, 
The  midnight  massacre  that  yet  may  be, 

The  blazing  village. 


220  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

When  will  he  mend  his  wicked  ways,  indeed, 
Kill  more  humanely  — 

Depart,  and  leave  to  us  the  lands  we  need  ? 
To  put  it  plainly. 

Yet  in  our  dealings  with  his  race,  in  crimes 

Of  war  and  ravage, 
Who  is  the  Christian,  one  might  ask  sometimes, 

And  who  the  savage  ? 

His  traits  are  ours,  seen  in  a  dusky  glass, 

And  but  remind  us 
Of  heathenism  we  hardly  yet,  alas  ! 

Have  left  behind  us. 

Is  right  for  white  race  wrong  for  black  and  red  ? 

A  man  or  woman, 
What  hue  soever,  after  all  that 's  said, 

Is  simply  human. 

Viewed  from  the  smoke  and  misery  of  his  dim 

Civilization, 
How  seems,  I  'd  like  to  ask  —  how  seems  to  him 

The  proud  Caucasian  ? 

I  shape  the  question  as  he  saunters  nigh, 

But  shame  to  ask  it. 
We  turn  to  price  his  wares  instead,  and  buy, 

Perhaps,  a  basket. 

But  this  is  strange  !     A  man  without  pretense 

Of  wit  or  reading, 
Where  did  he  get  that  calm  intelligence, 

That  plain  good-breeding  ? 

With  him  long  patience,  fortitude  unspent, 

Untaught  sagacity : 
Culture  with  us,  the  curse  of  discontent, 

Pride,  and  rapacity. 


AN  IDYL  OF  HARVEST  TIME  221 

Something  we  gain  of  him  and  bear  away 

Beside  our  purchase. 
We  look  awhile  upon  the  quivering  hay 

And  shimmering  birches  — 

The  young  squaw  bearing  up  from  the  canoes 

Some  heavy  lading ; 
Along  the  beach  a  picturesque  papoose 

Splashing  and  wading ; 

The  withered  crone,  the  camp-smoke's  slow  ascent, 

The  puffs  that  blind  her ; 
The  girl,  her  silhouette  on  the  sunlit  tent 

Shadowed  behind  her ; 

The  stalwart  brave,  watching  his  burdened  wife, 

Erect  and  stolid : 
We  look,  and  think  with  pity  of  a  life 

So  poor  and  squalid ! 

Then  at  the  cheering  signal  of  a  bell 

We  slowly  wander 
Back  to  the  world,  back  to  the  great  hotel 

Looming  up  yonder. 


AN  IDYL  OF  HARVEST  TIME 

SWIFT  cloud,  swift  light,  now  dark,  now  bright,  across  the  landscape 

played ; 

And,  spotted  as  a  leopard's  side  in  chasing  sun  and  shade, 
To  far  dim  heights  and  purple  vales  the  upland  rolled  away, 
Where  the  soft,  warm  haze  of  summer  days  on  all  the  distance  lay. 

From  shorn  and  hoary  harvest-fields  to  barn  and  bristling  stack, 
The  wagon  bore  its  beetling  loads,  or  clattered  empty  back  ; 
The  leaning  oxen  clashed  their  horns  and  swayed  along  the  road, 
And  the  old  house-dog  lolled  beside,  in  the  shadow  of  the  load. 

The  children  played  among  the  sheaves,  the  hawk  went  sailing  over, 
The  yellow-bird  was  on  the  bough,  the  bee  was  on  the  clover, 


222  A  HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

While  at  my  easel  by  the  oak  I  sketched,  and  sketched  in  vain :  — 
Could  I  but  group  those  harvesters,  paint  sunshine  on  the  grain  ! 

While  everywhere,  in  the  golden  air,  the  soul  of  beauty  swims, 
It  will  not  guide  my  feeble  touch,  nor  light  the  hand  that  limns. 
(The  load  moves  on  —  that  cloud  is  gone  !     I  must  keep  down  the  glare 
Of  sunshine  on  my  stubble-land.     Those  boys  are  my  despair !) 

My  fancies  flit  away  at  last,  and  wander  like  the  gleams 
Of*  shifting  light  along  the  hills,  and  drift  away  in  dreams  ; 
Till,  coming  round  the  farm-house  porch  and  down  the  shady  lane, 
A  form  is  seen,  half  hid,  between  the  stooks  of  shaggy  grain. 

Beside  my  easel,  at  the  oak,  I  wait  to  see  her  pass. 

'T  is  luncheon-time :  the  harvesters  are  resting  on  the  grass. 

I  watch  her  coming  to  the  gap,  and  envy  Master  Ben 

Who  meets  her  there,  and  helps  to  bear  her  basket  to  the  men. 

In  the  flushed  farmer's  welcoming  smile,  there  beams  a  father's  pride. 
More  quiet  grows,  more  redly  glows,  the  shy  youth  by  his  side  : 
In  the  soft  passion  of  his  look,  and  in  her  kind,  bright  glance, 
I  learn  a  little  mystery,  I  read  a  sweet  romance. 

With  pewter  mug,  and  old  brown  jug,  she  laughing  kneels  :  I  hear 
The  liquid  ripple  of  her  lisp,  with  the  gurgle  of  the  beer. 
That  native  grace,  that  charming  face,  those  glances  coy  and  sweet, 
Ben,  with  the  basket,  grinning  near  —  my  grouping  is  complete  ! 

The  picture  grows,  the  landscape  flows,  and  heart  and  fancy  burn,  — 
The  figures  start  beneath  my  brush  !     (So  you  the  rule  may  learn  : 
Let  thought  be  thrilled  with  sympathy,  right  touch  and  tone  to  give, 
And  mix  your  colors  with  heart's  blood,  to  make  the  canvas  live.) 

All  this  was  half  a  year  ago :  I  find  the  sketch  to-day,  — 
Faulty  and  crude  enough,  no  doubt,  but  it  wafts  my  soul  away  I 
I  tack  it  to  the  wall,  and  lo !  despite  the  winter's  gloom, 
It  makes  a  little  spot  of  sun  and  summer  in  my  room. 

Again  the  swift  cloud-shadow  sweeps  across  the  stooks  of  rye  ; 
The  cricket  trills,  the  locust  shrills,  the  hawk  goes  sailing  by ; 


THE  OLD   BURYING-GROUND  223 

The  yellow-bird  is  on  the  bough,  the  bee  is  on  the  thistle, 

The  quail  is  near  —  "  Ha  hoyt !  "  —  I  hear  his  almost  human  whistle  ! 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND 

PLUMED  ranks  of  tall  wild-cherry 

And  birch  surround 
The  half-hid,  solitary 

Old  burying-ground. 

All  the  low  wall  is  crumbled 

And  overgrown, 
And  in  the  turf  lies  tumbled, 

Stone  upon  stone. 

Only  the  school-boy,  scrambling 

After  his  arrow 
Or  lost  ball,  —  searching,  trampling 

The  tufts  of  yarrow, 

Of  milkweed  and  slim  mullein,  — 

The  place  disturbs ; 
Or  bowed  wise-woman,  culling 

Her  magic  herbs. 

No  more  the  melancholy 

Dark  trains  draw  near  ; 

The  dead  possess  it  wholly 
This  many  a  year. 

The  headstones  lean,  winds  whistle, 

The  long  grass  waves, 
Rank  grow  the  dock  and  thistle 

Over  the  graves ; 

And  all  is  waste,  deserted, 

And  drear,  as  though 
Even  the  ghosts  departed 

Long  years  ago ! 


224  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  squirrels  start  forth  and  chatter 

To  see  me  pass  ; 
Grasshoppers  leap  and  patter 

In  the  dry  grass. 

I  hear  the  drowsy  drumming 

Of  woodpeckers, 
And  suddenly  at  my  coming 

The  quick  grouse  whirs. 

Untouched  through  all  mutation 

Of  times  and  skies, 
A  by-gone  generation 

Around  me  lies : 

Of  high  and  low  condition, 

Just  and  unjust, 
The  patient  and  physician, 

All  turned  to  dust. 

Suns,  snows,  drought,  cold,  birds,  blossoms, 

Visit  the  spot ; 
Kains  drench  the  quiet  bosoms, 

Which  heed  them  not. 

Under  an  aged  willow, 

The  earth  my  bed, 
A  mossy  mound  my  pillow, 

I  lean  my  head. 

Babe  of  this  mother,  dying 

A  fresh  young  bride, 
That  old,  old  man  is  lying 

Here  by  her  side ! 

I  muse  :  above  me  hovers 

A  haze  of  dreams  : 
Bright  maids  and  laughing  lovers, 

Life's  morning  gleams ; 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND  225 

The  past  with  all  its  passions, 

Its  toils  and  wiles, 
Its  ancient  follies,  fashions, 

And  tears  and  smiles ; 

With  thirsts  and  fever-rages, 

And  ceaseless  pains, 
Hoarding  as  for  the  ages 

Its  little  gains ! 

Fair  lives  that  bloom  and  wither, 

Their  summer  done ; 
Loved  forms  with  heart-break  hither 

Borne  one  by  one. 

Wife,  husband,  child  and  mother, 

Now  reck  no  more 
Which  mourned  on  earth  the  other, 

Or  went  before. 

The  soul,  risen  from  its  embers, 

In  its  blest  state 
Perchance  not  even  remembers 

Its  earthly  fate ; 

Nor  heeds,  in  the  duration 

Of  spheres  sublime, 
This  pebble  of  creation, 

This  wave  of  time. 

For  a  swift  moment  only 

Such  dreams  arise ; 
Then,  turning  from  this  lonely, 

Tossed  field,  my  eyes 

Through  clumps  of  whortleberry 

And  brier  look  down 
Toward  yonder  cemetery, 

And  modern  town, 


226  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Where  still  men  build,  and  marry, 
And  strive,  and  mourn, 

And  now  the  dark  pall  carry, 
And  now  are  borne. 


A  STORY   OF  THE   "BAREFOOT  BOY" 

WRITTEN   FOR   J.    G.    WHITTIER's   SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY 
"  I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy."  —  J.  Q.  WHITTIEB 

ON  Haverhill's  pleasant  hills  there  played, 

Some  sixty  years  ago, 
In  turned-up  trousers,  tattered  hat, 
Patches  and  freckles,  and  all  that, 

The  Barefoot  Boy  we  know. 

He  roamed  his  berry-fields  content ; 

But  while,  from  bush  and  brier 
The  nimble  feet  got  many  a  scratch, 
His  wit,  beneath  its  homely  thatch, 

Aspired  to  something  higher. 

Over  his  dog-eared  spelling-book, 

Or  school-boy  composition, 
Puzzling  his  head  with  some  hard  sum, 
Going  for  nuts,  or  gathering  gum, 

He  cherished  his  ambition. 

He  found  the  turtles'  eggs,  and  watched 

To  see  the  warm  sun  hatch  'em  ; 
Hunted,  with  sling,  or  bow  and  arrow, 
Or  salt,  to  trap  the  unwary  sparrow  ; 
Caught  fish,  or  tried  to  catch  'em. 

But  more  and  more,  to  rise,  to  soar  — 

This  hope  his  bosom  fired. 
He  shot  his  shaft,  he  sailed  his  kite, 
Let  out  the  string  and  watched  its  flight, 

And  smiled,  while  he  aspired. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  "BAREFOOT  BOY"  227 

"  Now  I  've   a  plan  —  I  know  we  can  !  " 

He  said  to  Mat  —  another 
Small  shaver  of  the  barefoot  sort : 
His  name  was  Matthew  ;  Mat,  for  short ; 

Our  barefoot's  younger  brother. 

"  What !  fly  ?  "  says  Mat.     "  Well,  not  just  that." 

John  thought :  "  No,  we  can't  fly  ; 
But  we  can  go  right  up,"  says  he, 
"  Oh,  higher  than  the  highest  tree  ! 

Away  up  in  the  sky  !  " 

"  Oh,  do  !  "  says  Mat ;  "  I  '11  hold  thy  hat, 

And  watch  while  thee  is  gone." 
For  these  were  Quaker  lads,  and  each 
Lisped  in  his  pretty  Quaker  speech. 

"  No,  that  won't  do,"  says  John. 

"  For  thee  must  help ;  then  we  can  float, 

As  light  as  any  feather. 
We  both  can  lift ;  now  don't  thee  see  ? 
If  thee  '11  lift  me  while  I  lift  thee, 

We  shall  go  up  together  !  " 

An  autumn  evening ;  early  dusk  ; 

A  few  stars  faintly  twinkled  ; 
The  crickets  chirped  ;  the  chores  were  done ; 
*T  was  just  the  time  to  have  some  fun, 

Before  the  tea-bell  tinkled. 

They  spat  upon  their  hands,  and  clinched, 

Firm  under-hold  and  upper. 
"  Don't  lift  too  hard,  or  lift  too  far," 
Says  Mat,  "  or  we  may  hit  a  star, 
And  not  get  back  to  supper  !  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  says  John  ;  «  we  'U  only  lift 

A  few  rods  up,  that 's  all, 
To  see  the  river  and  the  town. 
Now  don't  let  go  till  we  come  down, 

Or  we  shall  catch  a  fall ! 


228  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  Hold  fast  to  me  !  now ;  one,  two,  three ! 

And  up  we  go  !  "     They  jerk, 
They  pull  and  strain,  but  all  in  vain  ! 
A  bright  idea,  and  yet,  't  was  plain, 

It  somehow  would  n't  work. 

John  gave  it  up  ;  ah,  many  a  John 
Has  tried  and  failed,  as  he  did ! 
'T  was  a  shrewd  notion,  none  the  less, 
And  still,  in  spite  of  ill  success, 
It  somehow  has  succeeded. 

Kind  nature  smiled  on  that  wise  child, 
Nor  could  her  love  deny  him 

The  large  fulfillment  of  his  plan  ; 

Since  he  who  lifts  his  brother  man 
In  turn  is  lifted  by  him. 

He  reached  the  starry  heights  of  peace 

Before  his  head  was  hoary ; 
And  now,  at  threescore  years  and  ten, 
The  blessings  of  his  fellow-men 
Waft  him  a  crown  of  glory. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF«LALLA  ROOKH  " 

BEAD  AT   THE   MOORE   BANQUET   IN  BOSTON,  MAY  27,  1879 

WHEN  we  were  farm-boys,  years  ago, 

I  dare  not  tell  how  many, 
When,  strange  to  say,  the  fairest  day 

Was  often  dark  and  rainy  ; 

No  work,  no  school,  no  weeds  to  pull, 

No  picking  up  potatoes, 
No  copy-page  to  fill  with  blots, 

With  little  o's  or  great  O's  ; 


But  jokes  and  stories  in  the  barn 
Made  quiet  fun  and  frolic  ; 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  "LALLA  ROOKH"     229 

Draughts,  fox-and-geese,  and  games  like  these, 
Quite  simple  and  bucolic  ; 

Naught  else  to  do,  but  just  to  braid 

A  lash,  or  sing  and  whittle, 
Or  go,  perhaps,  and  set  our  traps, 

If  it  "  held  up  "  a  little  ; 

On  one  of  those  fine  days,  for  which 

We  boys  were  always  wishing, 
Too  wet  to  sow,  or  plant,  or  hoe, 

Just  right  to  go  a-fishing,  — 

I  found,  not  what  I  went  to  seek, 

In  the  old  farm-house  gable,  — 
Nor  line,  nor  hook,  but  just  a  book 

That  lay  there  on  the  table, 

Beside  my  sister's  candlestick 

(The  wick  burned  to  the  socket)  ; 
A  handy  book  to  take  to  bed, 

Or  carry  in  one's  pocket. 

I  tipped  the  dainty  cover  back, 

With  little  thought  of  finding 
Anything  half  so  bright  within 

The  red  morocco  binding ; 

And  let  by  chance  my  careless  glance 

Range  over  song  and  story ; 
When  from  between  the  magic  leaves 

There  streamed  a  sudden  glory  — 

As  from  a  store  of  sunlit  gems, 

Pellucid  and  prismatic  — 
That  edged  with  gleams  the  rough  old  beams, 

And  filled  the  raftered  attic. 

I  stopped  to  read ;  I  took  no  heed 
Of  time  or  place,  or  whether 


230  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  window-pane  was  streaked  with  rain, 
Or  bright  with  clearing  weather. 

Of  chore-time  or  of  supper-time 
I  had  no  thought  or  feeling ; 

If  calves  were  bleating  to  be  fed, 
Or  hungry  pigs  were  squealing. 

The  tangled  web  of  tale  and  rhyme, 
Enraptured,  I  unraveled ; 

By  caravan,  through  Hindostan, 
Toward  gay  Cashmere,  I  traveled. 

Before  the  gate  of  Paradise 

I  pleaded  with  the  Peri  ; 
And  even  of  queer  old  Fadladeen 

I  somehow  did  not  weary  ; 

Until  a  voice  called  out  below  : 
"  Come,  boys  !  the  rain  is  over  ! 

It 's  time  to  bring  the  cattle  home  ! 
The  lambs  are  in  the  clover  !  " 

My  dream  took  flight ;  but  day  or  night, 
It  came  again,  and  lingered. 

I  kept  the  treasure  in  my  coat, 
And  many  a  time  I  fingered 

Its  golden  leaves  among  the  sheaves 
In  the  long  harvest  nooning  ; 

Or  in  my  room,  till  fell  the  gloom, 
And  low  boughs  let  the  moon  in. 

About  me  beamed  another  world, 

Refulgent,  oriental ; 
Life  all  aglow  with  poetry, 

Or  sweetly  sentimental. 

My  hands  were  filled  with  common  tasks, 
My  head  with  rare  romances  ; 

My  old  straw  hat  was  bursting  out 
With  light  locks  and  bright  fancies. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  "LALLA  ROOKH"     231 

In  field  or  wood,  my  thoughts  threw  off 

The  old  prosaic  trammels  ; 
The  sheep  were  grazing  antelopes, 

The  cows,  a  train  of  camels. 

Under  the  shady  apple-boughs, 

The  hook  was  my  companion ; 
And  while  I  read,  the  orchard  spread 

One  mighty  branching  banyan. 

To  mango-trees  or  almond-groves 

Were  changed  the  plums  and  quinces. 

/  was  the  poet,  Feramorz, 

And  had,  of  course,  my  Princess. 

The  well-curb  was  her  canopied, 

Rich  palanquin  ;  at  twilight, 
*T  was  her  pavilion  overhead, 

And  not  my  garret  skylight. 

Ah,  Lalla  Rookh !     O  charmed  book ! 

First  love,  in  manhood  slighted 1 
To-day  we  rarely 'turn  the  page 

In  which  our  youth  delighted. 

Moore  stands  upon  our  shelves  to-day, 

I  fear  a  trifle  dusty  ; 
With  Scott,  beneath  a  cobweb  wreath, 

And  Byron,  somewhat  musty. 

But  though  his  orient  cloth-of-gold 

Is  hardly  now  the  fashion, 
His  tender  melodies  will  live 

While  human  hearts  have  passion. 

The  centuries  roll ;  but  he  has  left, 

Beside  the  ceaseless  river, 
Some  flowers  of  rhyme  untouched  by  Time, 

And  songs  that  sing  forever. 


232  A  HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

FILLING  AN   ORDER 

BEAD   AT   THE  .HOLMES   BREAKFAST,    BOSTON,    DECEMBER   3,  1879 

To  Nature,  in  her  shop  one  day,  at  work  compounding  simples, 
Studying  fresh  tints  for  Beauty's  cheeks,  or  new  effects  in  dimples, 
An  order  came  :  she  wiped  in  haste  her  fingers  and  unfolded 
The  scribbled  scrap,  put  on  her  specs,  and  read  it,  while  she  scolded. 

"  From  Miss  Columbia  !     I  declare !  of  all  the  upstart  misses  ! 
What  will  the  jade  be  asking  next  ?     Now  what  an  order  this  is ! 
Where  's  Boston  ?     Oh,  that  one-horse  town  out  there  beside  the  ocean ! 
She  wants  —  of  course,  she  always  wants  —  another  little  notion ! 

"  This  time,  three  geniuses,  A  1,  to  grace  her  favorite  city : 
The  first  a  bard  ;  the  second  wise  ;  the  third  supremely  witty  ; 
None  of  the  staid  and  hackneyed  sort,  but  some  peculiar  flavor, 
Something  unique  and  fresh  for  each,  will  be  esteemed  a  favor  ! 
Modest  demands  !  as  if  my  hands  had  but  to  turn  and  toss  over 
A  Poet  veined  with  dew  and  fire,  a  Wit,  and  a  Philosopher ! 

"  But  now  let 's  see  !  "     She  put  aside  her  old,  outworn  expedients, 

And  in  a  quite  unusual  way  began  to  mix  ingredients,  — 

Some  in  the  fierce  retort  distilled,  some  pounded  by  the  pestle,  — 

And  set  the  simmering  souls  to  steep,  each  in  its  glowing  vessel. 

In  each,  by  turns,  she  poured,  she  stirred,  she  skimmed  the  shining 

liquor, 

Threw  laughter  in,  to  make  it  thin,  or  thought,  to  make  it  thicker. 
But  when  she  came  to  choose  the  clay,  she  found,  to  her  vexation, 
That,  with  a  stock  on  hand  to  fill  an  order  for  a  nation, 
Of  that  more  finely  tempered  stuff,  electric  and  ethereal, 
Of  which  a  genius  must  be  formed,  she  had  but  scant  material  — 
For  three  ?     For  one !     What  should  be  done  ?     A  bright  idea  struck 

her; 
Her  old  witch-eyes  began  to  shine,  her  mouth  began  to  pucker. 

Says  she,  "  The  fault,  I  'm  well  aware,  with  genius  is  the  presence 
Of  altogether  too  much  clay,  with  quite  too  little  essence, 
And  sluggish  atoms  that  obstruct  the  spiritual  solution ; 
So  now,  instead  of  spoiling  these  by  over-much  dilution, 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  233 

"With  their  fine  elements  I  '11  make  a  single,  rare  phenomenon, 
And  of  three  common  geniuses  concoct  a  most  uncommon  one, 
So  that  the  world  shall  smile  to  see  a  soul  so  universal, 
Such  poesy  and  pleasantry,  packed  in  so  small  a  parcel." 

So  said,  so  done  ;  the  three  in  one  she  wrapped,  and  stuck  the  label : 
Poet,  Professor,  Autocrat  of  Wit's  own  Breakfast-Table. 


THE   OLD  MAN   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN1 

ALL  round  the  lake  the  wet  woods  shake 

From  drooping  boughs  their  showers  of  pearl ; 
From  floating  skiff  to  towering  cliff 

The  rising  vapors  part  and  curl. 
The  west  wind  stirs  among  the  firs 

High  up  the  mountain  side  emerging ; 
The  light  illumes  a  thousand  plumes 

Through  billowy  banners  round  them  surging. 

A  glory  smites  the  craggy  heights ; 

And  in  a  halo  of  the  haze, 
Flushed  with  faint  gold,  far  up,  behold 

That  mighty  face,  that  stony  gaze  ! 
In  the  wild  sky  upborne  so  high 

Above  us  perishable  creatures, 
Confronting  Time  with  those  sublime, 

Impassive,  adamantine  features. 

Thou  beaked  and  bald  high  front,  miscalled 

The  profile  of  a  human  face ! 
No  kin  art  thou,  O  Titan  brow, 

To  puny  man's  ephemeral  race. 
The  groaning  earth  to  thee  gave  birth, 

Throes  and  convulsions  of  the  planet ; 
Lonely  uprose,  in  grand  repose, 

Those  eighty  feet  of  facial  granite. 

1  Profile  Notch,  Franconia,  N.  H.  The  "  Profile  "  is  formed  by  separate  projec 
tions  of  the  cliff,  which,  viewed  from  a  particular  point,  assume  the  marvellous  ap 
pearance  of  a  colossal  human  face. 


234  A  HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Here  long,  while  vast,  slow  ages  passed, 

Thine  eyes  (if  eyes  be  thine)  beheld 
But  solitudes  of  crags  and  woods, 

Where  eagles  screamed  and  panthers  yelled. 
Before  the  fires  of  our  pale  sires 

In  the  first  log-built  cabin  twinkled, 
Or  red  men  came  for  fish  and  game, 

That  scalp  was  scarred,  that  face  was  wrinkled. 

We  may  not  know  how  long  ago 

That  ancient  countenance  was  young ; 
Thy  sovereign  brow  was  seamed  as  now 

When  Moses  wrote  and  Homer  sung. 
Empires  and  states  it  antedates, 

And  wars,  and  arts,  and  crime,  and  glory ; 
In  that  dim  morn  when  Christ  was  born 

Thy  head  with  centuries  was  hoary. 

Thou  lonely  one !  nor  frost,  nor  sun, 

Nor  tempest  leaves  on  thee  its  trace ; 
The  stormy  years  are  but  as  tears 

That  pass  from  thy  unchanging  face. 
With  unconcern  as  grand  and  stern, 

Those  features  viewed,  which  now  survey  us, 
A  green  world  rise  from  seas  of  ice, 

And  order  come  from  mud  and  chaos. 

Canst  thou  not  tell  what  then  befell  ? 

What  forces  moved,  or  fast  or  slow ; 
How  grew  the  hills  ;  what  heats,  what  chills, 

What  strange,  dim  life,  so  long  ago  ? 
High-visaged  peak,  wilt  thou  not  speak  ? 

One  word,  for  all  our  learned  wrangle ! 
What  earthquakes  shaped,  what  glaciers  scraped, 

That  nose,  and  gave  the  chin  its  angle  ? 

Our  pygmy  thought  to  thee  is  naught, 
Our  petty  questionings  are  vain ; 

In  its  great  trance  thy  countenance 
Knows  not  compassion  nor  disdain. 


THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  235 

With  far-off  hum  we  go  and  come, 

The  gay,  the  grave,  the  busy-idle  ; 
And  all  things  done  to  thee  are  one, 

Alike  the  burial  and  the  bridal. 

Thy  permanence,  long  ages  hence, 

Will  mock  the  pride  of  mortals  still. 
Returning  springs,  with  songs  and  wings 

And  fragrance,  shall  these  valleys  fill ; 
The  free  winds  blow,  fall  rain  or  snow, 

The  mountains  brim  their  crystal  beakers ; 
Still  come  and  go,  still  ebb  and  flow, 

The  summer  tides  of  pleasure-seekers  : 

The  dawns  shall  gild  the  peaks  where  build 

The  eagles,  many  a  future  pair ; 
The  gray  scud  lag  on  wood  and  crag, 

Dissolving  in  the  purple  air ; 
The  sunlight  gleam  on  lake  and  stream, 

Boughs  wave,  storms  break,  and  still  at  even 
All  glorious  hues  the  world  suffuse, 

Heaven  mantle  earth,  earth  melt  in  heaven ! 

Nations  shall  pass  like  summer's  grass, 

And  times  unborn  grow  old  and  change  ; 
New  governments  and  great  events 

Shall  rise,  and  science  new  and  strange ; 
Yet  will  thy  gaze  confront  the  days 

With  its  eternal  calm  and  patience, 
The  evening  red  still  light  thy  head, 

Above  thee  burn  the  constellations. 

0  silent  speech,  that  well  can  teach 
The  little  worth  of  words  or  fame  ! 

1  go  my  way,  but  thou  wilt  stay 
While  future  millions  pass  the  same  : 

But  what  is  this  I  seem  to  miss  ? 

Those  features  fall  into  confusion ! 
A  further  pace  —  where  was  that  face  ? 

The  veriest  fugitive  illusion  ! 


236  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Gray  eidolon  !  so  quickly  gone 

When  eyes,  that  make  thee,  onward  move  ; 
Whose  vast  pretence  of  permanence 

A  little  progress  can  disprove  ! 
Like  some  huge  wraith  of  human  faith 

That  to  the  mind  takes  form  and  measure ; 
Grim  monolith  of  creed  or  myth, 

Outlined  against  the  eternal  azure ! 

O  Titan,  how  dislimned  art  thou ! 

A  withered  cliff  is  all  we  see ; 
That  giant  nose,  that  grand  repose, 

Have  in  a  moment  ceased  to  be ; 
Or  still  depend  on  lines  that  blend, 

On  merging  shapes,  and  sight,  and  distance, 
And  in  the  mind  alone  can  find 

Imaginary  brief  existence ! 

UNDER  MOON  AND   STARS 

FROM  the  house  of  desolation, 

From  the  doors  of  lamentation, 
I  went  forth  into  the  midnight  and  the  vistas  of  the  moon ; 

Where  through  aisles  high-arched  and  shady 

Paced  the  pale  and  spectral  lady, 
And  with  shining  footprints  silvered  the  deep  velvet  turf  of  June. 

In  the  liquid  hush  and  coolness 

Of  the  slumbering  earth,  the  fulness 
Of  my  aching  soul  was  solaced  ;  till  my  senses,  grown  intense, 

Caught  the  evanescent  twinkle, 

Caught  the  fairy-footed  tinkle, 
Of  the  dew-fall  raining  softly  on  the  leafage  cool  and  dense. 

The  sad  cries,  the  unavailing 

Orphans'  tears  and  woman's  wailing, 
In  the  shuttered  house  were  buried,  and  the  pale  face  of  the  dead ; 

From  the  chambers  closed  and  gloomy 

Neither  sight  nor  sound  came  to  me, 
But  great  silence  was  about  me,  and  the  great  sky  overhead. 


UNDER  MOON  AND  STARS  237 

As  a  mighty  angel  leaneth 

His  calm  visage  from  the  zenith, 

Gazed  the  moon :  my  thoughts  flew  upward,  through  the  pallid  atmos 
phere, 

To  the  planets  in  their  places, 

To  the  infinite  starry  spaces, 
Till  despair  and  death  grew  distant,  and  eternal  Peace  drew  near. 

Then  the  faith  that  oft  had  failed  me, 

And  the  mad  doubts  that  assailed  me, 
Like  two  armies  that  had  struggled  for  some  fortress  long  and  well, 

Both  as  by  a  breath  were  banished ; 

Friend  and  foe  together  vanished, 
And  my  soul  sat  high  and  lonely  in  her  solemn  citadel. 

Peace  !  and  from  her  starry  station 

Came  white-pinioned  Contemplation, 
White  and  mystical  and  silent  as  the  moonlight's  sheeted  wraith  ; 

Through  my  utter  melancholy 

Stole  a  rapture  still  and  holy, 
Something  deeper  than  all  doubting,  something  greater  than  all  faith. 

And  I  pondered  :  "  Change  is  written 

Over  all  the  blue,  star-litten 
Universe ;  the  moon  on  high  there,  once  a  palpitating  sphere, 

Now  is  seamed  with  ghastly  scissures, 

Chilled  and  shrunken,  cloven  with  fissures, 
Sepulchres  of  frozen  oceans  and  a  perished  atmosphere. 

"  Doubtless  mid  yon  burning  clusters 

Ancient  suns  have  paled  their  lustres, 
Worlds  are  lost  with  all  their  wonders,  glorious  forms  of  life  and  thought, 

Arts  and  altars,  lore  of  sages, 

Monuments  of  mighty  ages, 
All  that  joyous  nature  lavished,  all  that  toil  and  genius  wrought. 

"  So  this  dear,  warm  earth,  and  yonder 
Sister  worlds  that  with  her  wander 
Round  the  parent  light,  shall  perish  ;  on  through  darkening  cycles  run, 


238  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Whirling  through  their  vast  ellipses 
Evermore  in  cold  eclipses, 
Orphaned  planets  roaming  blindly  round  a  cold  and  darkened  sun ! 

"  This  bright  haze  and  exhalation, 

Starry  cloud  we  call  creation, 
Glittering  mist  of  orbs  and  systems,  shall  like  mist  dissolve  and  fall,  — 

Seek  the  sea  whence  all  ascendeth, 

Meet  the  ocean  where  all  endeth : 
Thou  alone  art  everlasting,  O  thou  inmost  Soul  of  all ! 

"  Through  all  height,  all  depth,  all  distance, 

All  duration,  all  existence, 
Moves  one  universal  nature,  flows  one  vast  Intelligence, 

Out  of  chaos  and  gray  ruin 

Still  the  shining  heavens  renewing, 
Flashing  into  light  and  beauty,  flowering  into  form  and  sense. 

"  Veiled  in  manifold  illusion, 

Seeming  discord  and  confusion, 
Life's  harmonious  scheme  is  builded :  earth  is  but  the  outer  stair, 

Is  but  scaffold-beam  and  stanchion 

In  the  rearing  of  the  mansion. 
Dust  enfolds  a  finer  substance,  and  the  air,  diviner  air. 

"  All  about  the  world  and  near  it 

Lies  the  luminous  realm  of  spirit, 

Sometimes    touching    upturned    foreheads   with   a   strange,   unearthly 
sheen ; 

Through  the  deep  ethereal  regions 

Throng  invisible  bright  legions, 
And  unspeakable  great  glory  flows  around  our  lives  unseen ; 

"  Round  our  ignorance  and  anguish, 

Round  the  darkness  where  we  languish, 

As   the   sunlight   round   the   dim   earth's   midnight   tower   of   shadow 
pours, 

Streaming  past  the  dim,  wide  portals, 

Viewless  to  the  eyes  of  mortals 
Till  it  flood  the  moon's  pale  islet  or  the  morning's  golden  shores. 


UNDER  MOON  AND  STARS  239 

"  Round  the  world  of  sense  forever 

Rolls  the  bright,  celestial  river : 
Of  its  presence,  of  its  passing,  streaks  of  faint  prophetic  light 

Give  the  mind  mysterious  warning, 

Gild  its  clouds  with  gleams  of  morning, 
Or  some  shining  soul  reflects  it  to  our  feeble  inner  sight." 

So  by  sheen  and  shade  I  wandered  ; 

And  the  mighty  theme  I  pondered 
(Vague  and  boundless  as  the  midnight  wrapping  world  and  life  and  man) 

Stooped  with  dewy  whispers  to  me, 

Breathed  unuttered  meanings  through  me, 
Of  man's  petty  pains  and  passions,  of  the  grandeur  of  God's  plan  ! 

And  I  said,  "  Thou  one  all-seeing, 

Perfect,  omnipresent  Being, 
Sparkling  in  the  nearest  dewdrop,  throbbing  in  the  farthest  star ; 

By  the  pulsing  of  whose  power 

Suns  are  sown  and  systems  flower ; 
Who  hast  called  my  soul  from  chaos  and  my  faltering  feet  thus  far ! 

"  What  am  I  to  make  suggestion  ? 

What  is  man  to  doubt  and  question 
Ways  too  wondrous  for  his  searching,  which  no  science  can  reveal  ? 

Perfect  and  secure  my  trust  is 

In  thy  mercy  and  thy  justice, 
Though  I  perish  as  an  insect  by  thine  awful  chariot-wheel ! 

"  Lo !  the  shapes  of  ill  and  error, 

Lo !  the  forms  of  death  and  terror, 
Are  but  light-obstructing  phantoms,  which  shall  vanish  late  or  soon, 

Like  this  sudden,  vast,  appalling 

Gloom  on  field  and  woodland  falling 
From  the  winged,  black  cloud-dragon  that  is  flying  by  the  moon  !  " 

Downward  wheeled  the  dragon,  driven 

Like  a  falling  fiend  from  heaven  ; 
And  the  silhouettes  of  the  lindens,  on  the  peaceful  esplanade, 

Lay  once  more  like  quiet  islands 

In  the  moonlight  and  the  silence ; 
And  by  softly  silvered  alleys,  leafy  mazes,  still  I  strayed, 


240  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Till,  through  boughs  of  sombre  maples, 

With  the  pale  gleam  on  its  gables, 
Lo !  the  house  of  desolation,  like  a  ghost  amid  the  gloom ! 

Then  the  thought  of  present  sorrow, 

Of  the  palled,  funereal  morrow, 
Filled  anew  my  heart  with  anguish  and  the  horror  of  the  tomb. 

And  I  cried,  "  Is  God  above  us  ? 

Are  there  Powers  that  guard  and  love  us, 
Pilots  to  the  blissful  havens  ?     Do  they  hear  the  tones  of  woe, 

Death  and  pain  and  separation, 

Wailing  through  the  wide  creation  ? 

Will  the  high  heavens  heed  or  help  us ;  do  they,  can  they  feel  and 
know?" 

Ah !  the  heart  is  very  human  ; 

Still  the  world  of  man  and  woman, 
Love  and  loss,  throbs  in  and  through  us  !     For  the  radiant  hour  is  rare, 

When  the  soul  from  heights  of  vision 

Views  the  shining  plains  Elysian, 
And  in  after-times  of  trouble  we  forget  what  peace  is  there. 


SONNETS 


NATIVITY 

THISTLE  and  serpent  we  exterminate, 

Yet  blame  them  not ;  and  righteously  abhor 
The  crimes  of  men  with  all  their  kind  at  war, 

Whom  we  may  stay  or  slay,  but  not  in  hate. 

By  blood  and  brain  we  are  predestinate 
Each  to  his  course ;  and  unawares  therefor 
The  heart's  blind  wish  and  inmost  counselor 

Makes  times  and  tides ;  for  man  is  his  own  fate. 

Nativity  is  horoscope  and  star ! 

One  innocent  egg  incloses  song  and  wings  ; 
One,  deadly  fangs  and  rattles  set  to  warn. 


SONNETS  241 


Our  days,  our  deeds,  all  we  achieve  or  are, 
Lay  folded  in  our  infancy ;  the  things 

Of  good  or  ill  we  choose  while  yet  unborn. 

II 

CIRCUMSTANCE 

STALKING  before  the  lords  of  life,  one  came, 
A  Titan  shape !  But  often  he  will  crawl, 
Their  most  subservient,  helpful,  humble  thrall ; 

Swift  as  the  light,  or  sluggish,  laggard,  lame ; 

Stony-eyed  archer,  launching  without  aim 

Arrows  and  lightnings,  heedless  how  they  fall,  — 
Blind  Circumstance,  that  makes  or  baffles  all, 

Happiness,  length  of  days,  power,  riches,  fame. 

Could  we  but  take  each  winged  chance  aright ! 
A  timely  word  let  fall,  a  wind-blown  germ, 

May  crown  our  glebe  with  many  a  golden  sheaf ; 

A  thought  may  touch  and  edge  our  life  with  light, 
Fill  all  its  sphere,  as  yonder  crescent  worm 
Brightens  upon  the  old  moon's  dusky  leaf. 

Ill 

PROVIDENCE 

WEARY  with  pondering  many  a  weighty  theme, 
I  slept ;  and  in  the  realm  of  vision  saw 
A  mighty  Angel  reverently  updraw 

The  cords  of  earth,  all  woven  of  gloom  and  gleam, 

Wiles,  woes,  and  many  a  silver-threaded  stream 
Of  sighs  and  prayers,  and  golden  bands  of  law, 
And  ties  of  faith  and  love,  with  many  a  flaw 

Riven,  but  reunited  in  my  dream. 

These  the  great  Angel,  gathering,  lifted  high, 
Like  mingled  lines  of  rain  and  radiance,  all 
In  one  bright,  awful  braid  divinely  blended, 

That  reached  the  beams  of  heaven,  —  a  chain  whereby 
This  dimly  glorious,  shadow-brooding  ball 

And  home  of  man  hung  wondrously  suspended. 


242       A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  TRAGEDY  QUEEN 

HER  triumphs  are  over,  the  crown 

Has  passed  from  her  brow  ; 
And  she  smiles,  "  To  whom  now  does  the  town 

My  poor  laurels  allow  ?  " 
It  has  wept  for  her,  dying,  a  hundred  times, 
With  mimic  passion,  in  mimic  crimes  : 
Who  cares  for  her  lying  discrowned  and  dying 
In  earnest  now  ? 

Only  those  who  have  known  her  strange  story, 

And  watched  her  through  all, 
So  serene  in  the  day  of  her  glory, 

So  grand  in  her  fall,  — 
In  the  sphere  beyond  all  tragic  art 
Playing  her  own  deep  woman's  part,  — 
A  few  faithful,  befriend  her,  still  cherish,  attend  her, 
And  come  at  her  call. 

And  so,  when  to-night  the  old  fire 

Flamed  up  in  her  eye, 
And  she  said,  "  'T  is  a  childish  desire, 

I  cannot  deny, 

To  see  the  old  boards  and  the  footlights  again, 
To  feel  the  wild  storm  of  the  plaudits  of  men  ! 
But  grant  me  this  pastime,  you  know  't  is  the  last  time," 
What  could  we  reply  ? 

Her  form  to  the  carriage  we  bore 

In  dark  mantle  and  veil ; 
On  my  arm,  at  the  gloomy  side-door, 

She  hung,  lily-like,  frail ; 
But,  treading  the  old,  familiar  scene, 
She  moved  majestic,  she  walked  a  queen  — 
The  rouged  ballet-girls  staring  to  see  her  high  bearing, 
So  proud  and  so  pale  ! 

At  the  wing,  her  swift  glance  as  we  waited 
Swept  royally  round : 


THE  TRAGEDY  QUEEN  243 

I  could  feel  how  she  thrilled  and  dilated, 

And  how  at  the  sound, 
The  brief  commotion  that  intervenes 
In  the  busy  moment  of  shifting  scenes, 
The  creaking  of  pulleys,  the  shrill  shrieking  coulisse, 

Her  heart  gave  a  bound. 

The  manager  hastes  and  unlocks 

The  small  door  from  the  wing ; 
To  the  deep-curtained,  crimson-lined  box 

Our  dear  lady  we  bring. 
All  a-flutter  with  life,  all  a-glitter  with  light, 
The  vast  half -circle  burst  on  the  sight ; 
The  fairy  stage  showing  amidst,  like  a  glowing 
Great  gem  in  its  ring. 

The  strong  soul  in  the  weak  woman's  face 

Flashes  forth  to  behold 
The  gay  world  that  assembled  to  grace 

Her  own  triumphs  of  old. 

The  vision  brings  back  her  bright  young  days  — 
For  her  the  loud  tumult,  the  showered  bouquets  ; 
And  her  fancy  is  ravished  with  joy  amid  lavished 
Glory  and  gold. 

In  that  moment  of  dream  disappear 

Sorrow,  sickness,  and  pain  : 
Airy  hopes,  a  romantic  career, 

Beam  and  beckon  again. 
Alas  !  but  the  life  itself  could  last 
No  more  than  the  dream :  and  the  dream  is  past  — 
'T  is  gone  with  the  quickness  of  breath,  while  the  sickness 
And  sorrow  remain. 

We  saw  her,  pain-stricken  and  white, 

Sink  back  in  her  place : 
Could  a  pang  of  sharp  envy  so  smite 

The  brief  joy  from  her  face  ? 

Lo,  the  queen  of  the  ballet !  she  wavers  and  glides  ; 
Upon  floods  of  strong  music  triumphant  she  rides, 


244  A  HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

And  laughingly  pillows  each  movement  on  billows 
Of  beauty  and  grace. 

And  there,  in  his  orchestra  stall, 

The  stage-vampire  is  seen, 
Foremost  once,  most  devoted  of  all, 

In  the  train  of  our  queen. 
Still  seeking  a  fresh  young  heart  to  devour, 
Still  following  ever  the  queen  of  the  hour, 
Enrapt  by  so  rare  a  sight,  sits  the  gray  parasite, 
Ogling  the  scene. 

Not  envy  —  her  heart  is  too  great. 

But  for  her,  for  all  these, 
Whose  fortunes,  like  flatterers,  wait 

On  their  power  to  please, 
Whose  unsubstantial  happiness  draws 
Its  air-plant  life  from  the  breath  of  applause, 
The  powers  soon  jaded,  the  flowers  all  faded 
And  withered  she  sees ; 

The  unworthy  contentions,  the  strife ; 

Feet  lured  from  the  goals, 
Hands  stayed  in  the  contest  of  life, 

By  the  hour  that  cajoles 
With  its  wayside-scattered  apples  of  joy  ; 
The  sunshine  that  pampers,  the  storms  that  destroy, 
And  all  the  besetting  temptations  benetting 
These  butterfly  souls. 

And  naught,  as  we  know,  can  assuage 

Her  keen  anguish  of  heart, 
Seeing  thus  from  her  dearly  loved  stage 

The  true  grandeur  depart. 
Now  the  people  prefer  these  wonder-shows, 
Scant  costume,  antics,  and  flushed  tableaux ; 
For  tinsel  and  magic,  forgetting  her  tragic 
Magnificent  art. 


THE   TRAGEDY   QUEEN  245 

"  Let  us  go  !  "  she  entreats  ;  "  I  am  ill !  " 

And  unnoticed  withdraws 
From  the  theatre,  thundering  still 

With  the  surge  of  applause. 
As  slowly  she  turns  behind  the  scene 
For  a  parting  glance,  comes  the  gay  new  queen, 
By  fairies  attended,  all  glowing  and  splendid 
In  spangles  and  gauze. 

From  the  footlights,  arms  filled  with  bouquets, 

One  is  hurrying  back  ; 
One  gazes  with  cold  marble  face 
From  the  veil's  tragic  black  : 
And  there  at  the  manager's  beck  they  meet ; 
The  new  queen  stoops  at  the  old  queen's  feet, 
With  all  her  soft  graces,  and  sweet  commonplaces 
Of  greeting  no  lack. 

Before  her  the  great  lady  stood, 

So  gracious,  so  grand  ! 
"  You  are  lovely  —  I  think  you  are  good : 

O  child,  understand ! 
Be  prudent,  yet  generous ;  false  to  none ; 
Keep  the  pearl  of  the  heart ;  be  true  to  one  ; 
Be  wise,  oh,  be  gentle !  "  and  from  the  dark  mantle 
She  reached  forth  her  hand. 

And  they  parted.     All  freshness  and  fire, 
.     One  passed  in  her  bloom, 
Feet  swift  with  delight  and  desire, 

Arms  shedding  perfume  ! 
From  the  cold  dim  coach  one  looks  her  last 
At  the  theatre  lights  and  the  joyous  past, 
As  away  in  the  lurid  wet  night  we  are  hurried, 
Through  rain-gust  and  gloom. 


246  A   HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  OLD  LOBSTERMAN 

CAPE  ARUNDEL,  KENNEBUNKPORT,  MAINE 

JUST  back  from  a  beach  of  sand  and  shells, 

And  shingle  the  tides  leave  oozy  and  dank, 
Summer  and  winter  the  old  man  dwells 

In  his  low  brown  house  on  the  river  bank. 
Tempest  and  sea-fog  sweep  the  hoar 
And  wrinkled  sand-drifts  round  his  door, 
Where  often  I  see  him  sit,  as  gray 
And  weather-beaten  and  lonely  as  they. 

Coarse  grasses  wave  on  the  arid  swells 

In  the  wind  ;  and  two  bright  poplar-trees 
Seem  hung  all  over  with  silver  bells 

That  tinkle  and  twinkle  in  sun  and  breeze. 
All  else  is  desolate  sand  and  stone : 
And  here  the  old  lobsterman  lives  alone  : 
Nor  other  companionship  has  he 
But  to  sit  in  his  house  and  gaze  at  the  sea. 

A  furlong  or  more  away  to  the  south, 
On  the  bar  beyond  the  huge  sea-walls 

That  keep  the  channel  and  guard  its  mouth, 
The  high,  curved  billow  whitens  and  falls  ; 

And  the  racing  tides  through  the  granite  gate, 

On  their  wild  errands  that  will  not  wait, 

Forever,  unresting,  to  and  fro, 

Course  with  impetuous  ebb  and  flow. 

They  bury  the  barnacled  ledge,  and  make 

Into  every  inlet  and  crooked  creek, 
And  flood  the  flats  with  a  shining  lake, 

Which  the  proud  ship  ploughs  with  foam  at  her  beak 
The  ships  go  up  to  yonder  town, 
Or  over  the  sea  their  hulls  sink  down, 
And  many  a  pleasure  pinnace  rides 
On  the  restless  backs  of  the  rushing  tides. 


THE   OLD  LOBSTERMAN  247 

I  try  to  fathom  the  gazer's  dreams, 

But  little  I  gain  from  his  gruff  replies ; 
Far  off,  far  off  the  spirit  seems, 

As  he  looks  at  me  with  those  strange  gray  eyes ; 
Never  a  hail  from  the  shipwrecked  heart ! 
Mysterious  oceans  seem  to  part 
The  desolate  man  from  all  his  kind  — 
The  Selkirk  of  his  lonely  mind. 

He  has  growls  for  me  when  I  bring  him  back 

My  unused  bait  —  his  way  to  thank  ; 
And  a  good  shrill  curse  for  the  fishing-smack 

That  jams  his  dory  against  the  bank ; 
But  never  a  word  of  love  to  give 
For  love,  —  ah  !  how  can  he  bear  to  live  ? 
I  marvel,  and  make  my  own  heart  ache 
With  thinking  how  his  must  sometimes  break. 

Solace  he  finds  in  the  sea,  no  doubt. 

To  catch  the  ebb  he  is  up  and  away. 
I  see  him  silently  pushing  out 

On  the  broad  bright  gleam  at  break  of  day ; 
And  watch  his  lessening  dory  toss 
On  the  purple  crests  as  he  pulls  across, 
Round  reefs  where  silvery  surges  leap, 
And  meets  the  dawn  on  the  rosy  deep. 

His  soul,  is  it  open  to  sea  and  sky  ? 

His  spirit,  alive  to  sound  and  sight  ? 
What  wondrous  tints  on  the  water  lie  — 

Wild,  wavering,  liquid  realm  of  light ! 
Between  two  glories  looms  the  shape 
Of  the  wood-crested,  cool  green  cape, 
Sloping  all  round  to  foam-laced  ledge, 
And  cavern  and  cove,  at  the  bright  sea's  edge. 

He  makes  for  the  floats  that  mark  the  spots, 
And  rises  and  falls  on  the  sweeping  swells, 

Ships  oars,  and  pulls  his  lobster-pots, 

And  tumbles  the  tangled  claws  and  shells 


248  A  HOME   IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

In  the  leaky  bottom ;  and  bails  his  skiff ; 
While  the  slow  waves  thunder  along  the  cliff, 
And  foam  far  away  where  sun  and  mist 
Edge  all  the  region  with  amethyst. 

I  watch  him,  and  fancy  how,  a  boy, 

Round  these  same  reefs,  in  the  rising  sun, 
He  rowed  and  rocked,  and  shouted  for  joy, 

As  over  the  boat-side  one  by  one 
He  lifted  and  launched  his  lobster-traps, 
And  reckoned  his  gains,  and  dreamed,  perhaps, 
Of  a  future  as  glorious,  vast,  and  bright 
As  the  ocean,  unrolled  in  the  morning  light. 

He  quitted  his  skiff  for  a  merchant  ship  ; 

Was  sailor-boy,  mate,  —  gained  skill  and  command  ; 
And  brought  home  once  from  a  fortunate  trip 

A  wife  he  had  found  in  a  foreign  land  : 
So  the  story  is  told  :  then  settled  down 
With  the  nabobs  of  his  native  town,  — 
Jolly  old  skippers,  bluff  and  hale, 
Who  owned  the  bottoms  they  used  to  sail. 

Does  he  sometimes  now,  in  his  loneliness, 

Live  over  again  that  happy  time, 
Beguile  his  poverty  and  distress 

With  pictures  of  his  prosperous  prime  ? 
Does  ever,  at  dusk,  a  fond  young  bride 
Start  forth  and  sit  by  the  old  man's  side ; 
Children  frolic,  and  friends  look  in  ; 
With  all  the  blessings  that  might  have  been  ? 

Yet  might  not  be !     The  same  sad  day 

Saw  wife  and  babe  to  the  churchyard  borne  ; 
And  he  sailed  away,  he  sailed  away,  — 
For  that  is  the  sailor's  way  to  mourn. 
And  ever,  't  is  said,  as  he  sailed  and  sailed, 
Heart  grew  reckless  and  fortune  failed, 
Till  old  age  drifted  him  back  to  shore, 
To  his  hut  and  his  lobster-pots  once  more. 


OLD  MAN  GRAM  249 


The  house  is  empty,  the  board  is  bare ; 

His  dish  he  scours,  his  jacket  he  mends  ; 
And  now  't  is  the  dory  that  needs  repair ; 

He  fishes ;  his  lobster-traps  he  tends  ; 
And,  rowing  at  nightfall  many  a  mile, 
Brings  floodwood  home  to  his  winter  pile  ; 
Then  his  fire 's  to  kindle,  and  supper  to  cook  ; 
The  storm  his  music,  his  thoughts  his  book. 

He  sleeps,  he  wakes  ;  and  this  is  his  life. 

Nor  kindred  nor  friend  in  all  the  earth  ; 
Nor  laughter  of  child,  nor  gossip  of  wife ; 

Not  even  a  cat  to  his  silent  hearth  ! 
Only  the  sand-hills,  wrinkled  and  hoar, 
Bask  in  the  sunset,  round  his  door, 
Where  now  I  can  see  him  sit,  as  gray 
And  weather-beaten  and  lonely  as  they. 


OLD  MAN  GRAM 

IN  little  Gram  Court  lives  old  man  Gram, 

The  patriarch  of  the  place  ; 

Where  often  you  '11  see  his  face, 
Eager  and  greedy,  peering  about, 
As  he  goes  bustling  in  and  out, 

At  a  wriggling,  rickety  pace, 

Brisk  octogenarian's  pace. 
He  rattles  his  stick  at  my  heels,  and  brags 
As  he  comes  shuffling  along  the  flags, 
Brags  of  his  riches  and  brags  of  his  rags, 

Much  work  and  little  play. 
"  You  see  where  I  am,"  says  old  man  Gram, 

"  You  see  where  I  am  to-day  ! 

"  I  came  to  town  at  twelve  years  old, 

With  a  shilling  in  this  'ere  pocket,"  — 
You  should  see  him  chuckle  and  knock  it ! 

"  The  town  to  me  was  a  big  stout  chest, 
With  fortunes  locked  in  the  till,  but  I  guessed 


250  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  silver  key  would  unlock  it, 

My  little  key  would  unlock  it ! 
I  found  in  a  rag-shop  kept  by  a  Jew 
A  place  to  sleep  and  a  job  to  do, 
And  managed  to  make  my  shilling  two ; 

And  that 's  always  been  my  way. 
Now  see  where  I  am,"  cries  old  man  Gram, 

"  Now  see  where  I  am  to-day  !  " 

In  his  den  a-top  of  the  butcher's  shop, 
He  lies  in  his  lair  of  husks, 

And  sups  on  gruels  and  rusks, 
And  a  bone  now  and  then,  to  pick  and  gnaw, 
With  hardly  a  tooth  in  his  tough  old  jaw, 

But  a  couple  of  curious  tusks, 

Ah,  picturesque,  terrible  tusks  ! 
Though  half  Gram  Court  he  calls  his  own, 
Here,  hoarding  his  rents,  he  has  lived  alone, 
Until,  like  a  hungry  wolf,  he  has  grown 

Gaunt  and  shaggy  and  gray. 
"  You  see  where  I  am,"  growled  old  man  Gram, 

As  I  looked  in  to-day. 

"  I  might  have  a  wife  to  make  my  broth,  — 

Which  would  be  convenient,  rather  ! 

And  younkers  to  call  me  father  ; 
But  a  wife  would  be  after  my  chink,  you  see, 
And  —  bantlings  for  them  that  like  !  "  snarls  he  ; 

"  I  never  would  have  the  bother  ; 

They  're  an  awful  expense  and  bother ! 
I  went  to  propose  at  fifty-four, 
But  stopped  as  I  raised  my  hand  to  the  door ; 
*  To  think  of  a  dozen  brats  or  more ! ' 

Says  I,  and  I  turned  away. 
Now  see  where  I  am,"  brags  old  man  Gram, 

"  Only  see  where  I  am  to-day  ! 

"  I  had  once  a  niece,  who  came  to  town 
As  poor  as  any  church  mouse  ; 
She  wanted  to  keep  my  house  ! 


OLD  MAN  GRAM  251 


*  Tut !  I  have  no  house  to  keep  !  go  back ! ' 
I  gave  her  a  dollar  and  told  her  to  pack ; 

At  which  she  made  such  a  touse  — 

You  never  did  see  such  a  touse  ! 
Whole  rows  of  houses  were  mine,  she  said ; 
I  had  more  bank  shares  than  hairs  in  my  head, 
And  gold  like  so  much  iron  or  lead  — 

All  which  I  could  n't  gainsay. 
Men  see  where  I  am,"  grins  old  man  Gram ; 

"  They  see  where  I  am  to-day. 

"  But  if  there  is  anything  I  detest, 

And  for  which  I  have  no  occasion, 

Sir,  it 's  a  poor  relation ! 
They  're  always  plenty,  and  always  in  need ; 
Take  one,  and  soon  you  will  have  to  feed 

Just  about  half  the  nation  ; 

They  '11  swarm  from  all  over  the  nation ! 
And  I  have  a  rule,  though  it 's  nothing  new  : 
'T  is  a  lesson  I  learned  from  my  friend,  the  Jew 
Whatever  I  fancy,  whatever  I  do, 

I  always  ask,  Will  it  pay  ? 
Now  see  where  I  am,"  boasts  old  man  Gram, 

"  Just  see  where  I  am  to-day  !  " 

The  little  boys  dread  his  coming  tread, 

They  are  pale  as  he  passes  by ; 

And  the  sauciest  curs  are  shy,  — 
His  stick  is  so  thick,  and  he  looks  so  grim ; 
Not  even  a  beggar  will  beg  of  him, 

You  should  hear  him  mention  why  ! 

There  's  a  very  good  reason  why. 
The  poor  he  hates,  and  he  has  n't  a  friend, 
And  none  but  a  fool  will  give  or  lend  ; 
"  For,  only  begin,  there  '11  be  no  end  ; 

That 's  what  I  always  say. 
Now  see  where  I  am,"  crows  old  man  Gram, 

"  Just  see  where  I  am  to-day  !  " 


252  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

His  miserly  gain  is  the  harvest-grain, 
All  the  rest  is  chaff  and  stubble  ; 
And  the  life  beyond  is  a  bubble  : 
We  are  as  the  beasts  :  and  he  thinks,  on  the  whole, 
It 's  quite  as  well  that  he  has  no  soul, 
For  that  might  give  him  trouble, 
Might  give  him  a  deal  of  trouble ! 
The  long  and  short  of  the  old  man's  creed 
Is  to  live  for  himself  and  to  feed  his  greed : 
The  world  is  a  very  good  world  indeed, 

If  only  a  chap  might  stay  ; 

"  Only  stay  where  I  am,"  whines  old  man  Gram, 
"  Stay  just  where  I  am  to-day !  " 

THE  ISLE   OF   LAMBS 

IN  sunlight  slept  the  gilded  cliff, 

The  ocean  beat  below, 
The  gray  gulls  flapped  along  the  wave, 

The  seas  broke,  huge  and  slow. 

The  drenched  rocks  rose  like  buffaloes, 

With  matted  sea-weed  manes  ; 
Each  shaggy  hide  shook  off  the  tide 

In  dripping  crystal  rains. 

Up  rose  Monk  Rock's  bald  scalp  and  locks : 

The  heavy,  drowned  hair 
Below  the  crown  hung  sad  and  brown, 

The  crown  was  bleached  and  bare. 

And  out  from  shore,  a  league  or  more, 

Entranced  in  purple  calms, 
Where  summer  seemed  eternal,  dreamed 

The  lovely  Isle  of  Lambs. 

I  said  :  "  Those  rocks  like  scattered  flocks 

Lie  basking  in  the  sun, 
And  fancy  sees  a  golden  fleece 

Enfolding  every  one." 


THE  ISLE  OF  LAMBS  253 

An  old  man  sat  upon  the  cliff ; 

His  hair  like  silver  flame 
Flared  in  the  breeze  :  "  Not  so,"  he  said, 

"  Our  island  got  its  name. 

But  as  each  year  our  sheep  we  shear, 

The  younglings  of  the  flock 
Are  chosen,  and  banished  to  that  small 

Green  world  of  grass  and  rock. 

"  There,  pastured  on  the  virgin  turf, 

And  watered  faithfully 
By  rain  and  dew,  the  summer  through, 
Encircled  by  the  sea, 

"  They  sport,  they  lie  beneath  the  sky, 

Fenced  in  by  shining  waves, 
Or  shelter  seek,  when  winds  are  bleak, 
Among  the  cliffs  and  caves." 

Still  as  I  questioned  him,  he  said : 

"  This  quiet  farm  I  till." 
A  house  he  showed  high  up  the  road, 

Half  hidden  by  the  hill. 

"  'T  is  now  threescore  long  years  and  more, 

Long  years  of  lonely  toil, 
Since  Ruth  and  I  came  here,  to  try 
Our  fortunes  on  the  soil. 

"  Not  yet  for  me  God's  sun  had  risen, 

His  face  I  could  not  see  ; 
But  she,  my  light,  my  moon  by  night, 
Reflected  Him  to  me. 

"  So  when  she  died  my  world  was  dark : 

No  hope,  but  grim  Despair, 
Despair  and  Hate,  his  gloomy  mate, 
Walked  with  me  everywhere. 


254  A  HOME  IDYL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

"  They  laid  their  burden  on  my  soul ; 

They  would  not  let  me  pray ; 
Hate  and  Despair,  a  dismal  pair, 
Were  with  me  night  and  day. 

"  They  said :  <  Behold  the  fisher-boy  ! 

He  laughs  a  lengthened  peal. 
For  bait  he  takes  a  worm,  or  breaks 
The  cockle  with  his  heel ; 

"  *  Nor  heeds  the  whitening  barnacles, 

As  crushingly  he  tramps 
By  the  sea's  edge,  along  the  ledge 
Encrusted  with  their  camps.' 

"  Then  I  beheld  the  living  fish 

Their  small  companions  slay, 
And  barnacles,  in  rocky  wells, 
That  snatched  a  viewless  prey. 

"  The  barnacles,  fine  fishermen, 

Their  tiny  scoop-nets  swung ; 
Each  breathing  shell  within  the  well 
Shot  forth  a  shadowy  tongue. 

"  Then  said  Despair  :  '  So  all  things  fare  ; 

Alike  the  great  and  small.' 
Then  muttered  Hate  :  *  Yea,  God  is  great ! 
He  preyeth  upon  all ! ' 

"  So  shearing-time  came  round  again  ; 

And  when  my  sheep  were  shorn, 
Beneath  the  cliff  I  rigged  my  skiff, 
One  pleasant  summer  morn. 

"  The  stars  were  gone  ;  I  saw  the  Dawn 

Her  crown  of  glory  lay 
With  misty  smile  on  yonder  isle, 
And  something  seemed  to  say  : 


THE  ISLE  OF  LAMBS  255 

"  '  Who  spread  those  pastures  for  thy  flock  ? 

Who  sends  the  herb  and  dew  ? 
Who  curved  round  all  this  crystal  wall  ? 
He  is  thy  Shepherd,  too  ! ' 

"  Windrows  of  kelp  lay  on  the  beach, 

Sent  hither  by  the  storm  ; 
The  sea's  rich  spoil,  our  meagre  soil 
To  nourish  and  to  warm. 

"  Against  the  course  of  winds  and  foam, 

Shoreward,  from  steadfast  deeps, 
With  mighty  flow  the  undertow 
Its  rolling  burden  sweeps. 

"  And  something  whispered  in  my  heart : 

*  Beneath  the  waves  of  wrong, 

The  surface  flow  of  wrong  and  woe, 

Are  currents  deep  and  strong, 

"  '  Unseen,  that  still  to  those  who  wait 

Bring  blessedness  and  help.' 
But,  dark  and  stern,  I  would  not  learn 
The  lesson  of  the  kelp. 

"  The  lambs  were  bound,  and  one  by  one 

I  took  them  from  the  sand, 

Till,  all  afloat  in  my  good  boat, 

I  pushed  out  from  the  land. 

"  I  took  the  oar,  I  pushed  from  shore ; 

And  then  I  smiled  to  see 
One  poor,  scared  thing  upstart  and  spring, 
His  fettered  limbs  to  free. 

"  <  You  f  oolish  lamb  ! '  I  chided  him, 

1  Have  faith  in  me  and  wait. 
You  do  but  gain  a  needless  pain 
By  striving  with  your  fate. 


256  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  '  I  know  your  grief,  the  end  I  know. 

Those  hazy  slopes,  that  rise 
From  out  the  sea,  to  you  shall  be 
A  summer  paradise.' 

"  The  light  oars  dipped,  they  rose  and  dripped, 

The  ripples  ran  heneath, 
In  many  a  whirl  of  pink  and  pearl, 
In  many  a  sparkling  wreath. 

"  With  long,  smooth  swell  arose  and  fell 

The  slow,  uncertain  seas, 
Till  something  stole  into  my  soul 
Of  their  soft  light  and  peace. 

"  A  flush  of  hope,  a  breath  of  joy, 

To  know  that  still  for  me 
The  dawn's  bright  hues  could  so  suffuse 
That  pure  translucency. 

"  But,  when  the  voyage  was  almost  done, 

The  discontented  lamb, 
With  one  glad  bleat,  shook  free  his  feet, 
Leaped  from  the  skiff,  and  swam. 

"  Far  off  the  tall,  forbidding  wall 

Of  rocky  coast  was  seen ; 
The  sea  was  cold,  the  billows  rolled 
A  restless  host  between. 

"  Billows  before  and  all  around  — 

A  billowy  world  to  swim  ; 
Only  the  boat  was  there  afloat 
On  the  wide  waves  with  him. 

"  He  turned,  dismayed  ;  but  looked  in  vain 

His  following  mates  to  see  ; 
All,  snug  and  warm  and  safe  from  harm, 
Were  in  the  skiff  with  me. 


THE  ISLE  OF  LAMBS  257 

"  Ah !  then  he  knew  his  shepherd's  voice  ! 

With  cries  of  quick  distress, 
Straight  to  my  beckoning  hand  he  came, 
In  utter  helplessness. 

"  With  piteous  cries,  with  pleading  eyes, 

Upon  my  friendly  palm 
He  stretched  his  chin ;  I  drew  him  in, 
A  chilled  and  dripping  lamb. 

"  i  This  poor,  repentant  beast,'  I  said, 

*  Is  wiser  far  than  I ; 
Against  God's  will  rebellious  still, 
I  beat  the  waves  and  cry. 

'  O  Love  look  down  !     I  sink !     I  drown ! 

Is  there  no  hand  to  reach 
A  pleading  soul  ?  '     My  boat,  meanwhile, 
Drew  near  the  rocky  beach. 

"  How  calm  the  waves !     How  clear  the  sea ! 

Mysterious  and  slow, 
In  that  deep  glass,  the  long  eel-grass 
Went  waving  to  and  fro. 

"  Safely  to  shore  my  freight  I  bore ; 
Their  morning  voyage  was  done. 
I  loosed  their  bands  upon  the  sands 
And  freed  them,  one  by  one* 

"  They  climbed  the  fresh  and  dewy  slopes, 

They  wandered  everywhere ; 
With  many  a  sweet  and  gladsome  bleat, 
They  blessed  the  island  air. 

"  The  beach-birds  ran  among  the  rocks, 

And,  like  an  infant's  hand, 
A  little  star-fish  stretched  its  five 
Pink  fingers  on  the  sand. 


258  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  Invisible,  on  some  high  crest, 

One  solitary  bird 

Trilled  clear  and  strong  his  morning  song, 
The  sweetest  ever  heard. 

"  The  sky,  all  light  and  love,  looked  down 

Upon  the  curtained  sea ; 
The  dimpled  deep  in  rosy  sleep 
Lay  breathing  tranquilly. 

"  Upon  the  island's  topmost  rock 

I  basked  in  holy  calms ; 
My  proud  heart  there  I  bowed  in  prayer, 
My  joy  broke  forth  in  psalms. 

"  O  stranger !  you  are  young,  and  I 

Am  in  the  shadowy  vale ; 
Fourscore  and  ten  the  years  have  been 
Of  him  who  tells  this  tale. 

"  And  do  you  marvel  at  the  peace 

That  goes  with  hoary  hairs, 
This  heritage  of  blessed  age 
Which  my  glad  spirit  bears  ? 

"  The  secret  is  not  far  to  seek, 

If  you  can  tell  me  why 
One  lamb  thenceforth,  of  all  my  flock, 
Was  precious  in  my  eye ; 

"  And  wherefore  he,  more  faithfully 

And  fondly  than  the  rest, 
Learned  to  obey  my  voice  and  lay 
His  head  upon  my  breast." 

That  old  man  rose,  he  passed  away 

In  sunshine  soft  and  still, 
To  his  abode,  high  up  the  road, 

Behind  the  sunlit  hill. 


THE   BOY  I  LOVE  259 


Then  half  I  thought,  such  peace  he  brought, 

So  clothed  in  light  was  he, 
That  on  that  coast  a  heavenly  ghost 

Had  met  and  talked  with  me. 


THE  BOY  I  LOVE 

MY  boy,  do  you  know  the  boy  I  love  ? 

I  fancy  I  see  him  now ; 
His  forehead  bare  in  the  sweet  spring  air, 
With  the  wind  of  hope  in  his  waving  hair, 

The  sunrise  on  his  brow. 

He  is  something  near  your  height,  may  be ; 

And  just  about  your  years  ; 
Timid  as  you ;  but  his  will  is  strong, 
And  his  love  of  right  and  his  hate  of  wrong 

Are  mightier  than  his  fears. 

He  has  the  courage  of  simple  truth. 

The  trial  that  he  must  bear, 
The  peril,  the  ghost  that  frights  him  most, 
He  faces  boldly,  and  like  a  ghost 

It  vanishes  in  air. 

As  wildfowl  take,  by  river  and  lake, 

The  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
With  cheerful,  constant  hardihood 
He  meets  the  bad  luck  and  the  good, 

The  pleasure  and  the  pain. 

Come  friends  in  need  ?     With  heart  and  deed 

He  gives  himself  to  them. 
He  has  the  grace  which  reverence  lends,  — 
Reverence,  the  crowning  flower  that  bends 

The  upright  lily-stem. 

Though  deep  and  strong  his  sense  of  wrong, 
Fiery  his  blood  and  young, 


260  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

His  spirit  is  gentle,  his  heart  is  great, 
He  is  swift  to  pardon  and  slow  to  hate, 


And  master  of  his  tongue. 

Fond  of  his  sports  ?     No  merrier  lad's 

Sweet  laughter  ever  rang ! 
But  he  is  so  generous  and  so  frank, 
His  wildest  wit  or  his  maddest  prank 

Can  never  cause  a  pang. 

His  own  sweet  ease,  all  things  that  please, 

He  loves,  like  any  boy ; 
But  fosters  a  prudent  fortitude ; 
Nor  will  he  squander  a  future  good 

To  buy  a  fleeting  joy. 

Face  brown  or  fair  ?     I  little  care, 

Whatever  the  hue  may  be, 
Or  whether  his  eyes  are  dark  or  light ; 
If  his  tongue  be  true  and  his  honor  bright, 

He  is  still  the  boy  for  me. 

Where  does  he  dwell  ?     I  cannot  tell ; 

Nor  do  I  know  his  name. 
Or  poor,  or  rich  ?     I  don't  mind  which  ; 
Or  learning  Latin,  or  digging  ditch ; 

I  love  him  all  the  same. 

With  high,  brave  heart  perform  your  part, 

Be  noble  and  kind  as  he, 
Then,  some  fair  morning,  when  you  pass, 
Fresh  from  glad  dreams,  before  your  glass, 

His  likeness  you  may  see. 

You  are  puzzled  ?     What !  you  think  there  is  not 

A  boy  like  him,  —  surmise 
That  he  is  only  a  bright  ideal  ? 
But  you  have  power  to  make  him  real, 

And  clothe  him  to  our  eyes. 


ANCESTORS  261 


You  have  rightly  guessed  :  in  each  pure  breast 

Is  his  abiding-place. 
Then  let  your  own  true  life  portray 
His  beauty,  and  blossom  day  by  day 

With  something  of  his  grace. 

ANCESTORS 

ON   READING   A   FAMILY   HISTORY 

OPEN  lies  the  book  before  me :  in  a  realm  obscure  as  dreams 
I  can  trace  the  pale  blue  mazes  of  innumerable  streams, 
That  from  regions  lost  in  distance,  vales  of  shadow  far  apart, 
Meet  to  blend  their  mystic  forces  in  the  torrents  of  my  heart. 

Pensively  I  turn  the  pages,  pausing,  curious  and  aghast : 
What  commingled,  unknown  currents,  mighty  passions  of  the  past, 
In  this  narrow,  pulsing  moment  through  my  fragile  being  pour, 
From  the  mystery  behind  me,  to  the  mystery  before ! 

I  put  by  the  book :  in  vision  rise  the  gray  ancestral  ghosts, 

Reaching  back  into  the  ages,  vague,  interminable  hosts, 

From  the  home  of  modern  culture  to  the  cave  uncouth  and  dim, 

Wh.ere  —  what 's  he  that  gropes  ?  a  savage,  naked,  gibbering,  and  grim ! 

I  was  moulded  in  that  far-off  time  of  ignorance  and  wrong, 
When  the  world  was  to  the  crafty,  to  the  ravenous  and  strong ; 
Tempered  in  the  fires  of  struggle,  of  aggression  and  resistance  : 
In  the  prowler  and  the  slayer  I  have  had  a  preexistence ! 

Wild  forefathers,  I  salute  you !     Though  your  times  were  fierce  and 

rude, 

From  their  rugged  husk  of  evil  comes  the  kernel  of  our  good. 
Sweet  the  righteousness  that  follows,  great  the  forces  that  foreran : 
'T  is  the  marvel  still  of  marvels  that  there 's  such  a  thing  as  man  ! 

Now  I  see  I  have  exacted  too  much  justice  of  my  race, 
Of  my  own  heart  too  much  wisdom,  of  my  brothers  too  much  grace ; 
Craft  and  greed  our  primal  dower,  wrath  and  hate  our  heritage  ! 
Scarcely  gleams  as  yet  the  crescent  of  the  full-orbed  golden  age. 


262  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Man's  great  passions  are  coeval  with  the  vital  breath  he  draws, 
Older  than  all  codes  of  custom,  all  religions  and  all  laws  ; 
Before  prudence  was,  or  justice,  they  were  proved  and  justified : 
We  may  shame  them  or  redeem  them,  their  dominion  will  abide. 

Still  the  darker  age  will  linger  in  the  slowly  brightening  present, 
Still  the  old  moon's  fading  phantom  in  the  bosom  of  the  crescent ; 
The  white  crown  of  reason  covers  the  old  kingdom  of  unrest, 
And  I  feel  at  times  the  stirring  of  the  savage  in  my  breast. 

Wrong  and  insult  find  me  weaponed  for  a  more  heroic  strife  ; 
In  the  sheath  of  mercy  quivers  the  barbarian's  ready  knife ! 
But  I  blame  no  more  the  givers  for  the  rudeness  of  the  dower : 
'T  was  the  roughness  of  the  thistle  that  insured  the  future  flower. 

Somehow  hidden  in  the  slayer  was  the  singer  yet  to  be, 

In  the  fiercest  of  my  fathers  lived  the  prophecy  of  me  ; 

But  the  turbid  rivers  flowing  to  my  heart  were  filtered  through 

Tranquil  veins  of  honest  toilers  to  a  more  cerulean  hue. 

0  my  fathers,  in  whose  bosoms  slowly  dawned  the  later  light, 

In  whom  grew  the  thirst  for  knowledge,  in  whom  burned  the  love  of 

right, 
All  my  heart  goes  out  to  know  you !     With  a  yearning  near  to  pain, 

1  once  more  take  up  the  volume,  but  I  turn  the  leaves  in  vain. 

Not  a  voice,  of  all  your  voices,  comes  to  me  from  out  the  vast ; 
Not  a  thought,  of  all  your  thinking,  into  living  form  has  passed : 
As  I  peer  into  the  darkness,  not  a  being  of  my  name 
Stands  revealed  against  the  shadows  in  the  beacon-glare  of  fame. 

Yet  your  presence,  O  my  parents,  in  my  inmost  self  I  find, 
Your  persistent  spectres  haunting  the  dim  chambers  of  the  mind  : 
Old  convulsions  of  the  planet  in  the  new  earth  leave  their  trace, 
And  the  child's  heart  is  an  index  to  the  story  of  his  race. 

Each  with  his  unuttered  secret  down  the  common  road  you  went, 
Winged  with  hope  and  exultation,  bowed  with  toil  and  discontent : 
Fear  and  triumph  and  bereavement,  birth  and  death  and  love  and  strife, 
Wove  the  evanescent  vesture  of  your  many-colored  life. 


ANCESTORS  263 


Your  long-silent  generations  first  in  me  have  found  a  tongue, 
And  I  bear  the  mystic  burden  of  a  thousand  lives  unsung : 
Hence  this  love  for  all  that 's  human,  the  strange  sympathies  I  feel, 
Subtle  memories  and  emotions  which  I  stammer  to  reveal. 

Now  I  also,  in  my  season,  walk  beneath  the  sun  and  moon, 
Face  the  hoary  storms  of  winter,  breathe  the  luxury  of  June  : 
Here  to  gaze  awhile  and  wonder,  here  to  weep  and  laugh  and  kiss  ; 
Then  to  join  the  pale  procession  sweeping  down  the  dark  abyss. 

To  each  little  life  its  moment !     We  are  sparkles  of  the  sea : 
Still  the  interminable  billows  heave  and  gleam,  —  and  where  are  we  ? 
Still  forever  rising,  following,  mingling  with  the  mighty  roar, 
Wave  on  wave  the  generations  break  upon  the  eternal  shore. 

Here  I  joy  and  sing  and  suffer,  in  this  moment  fleeting  fast, 
Then  become  myself  a  phantom  of  the  far-receding  past, 
When  our  modern  shall  be  ancient,  and  the  narrow  times  expand, 
Down  through  ever-broadening  eras,  to  a  future  vast  and  grand. 

Clouds  of  ancestors,  ascending  from  this  sublunary  coast, 
Here  am  I,  enrolled  already  in  your  ever-mustering  host ! 
Here  and  now  the  rivers  blended  in  my  blood  once  more  divide, 
In  the  fair  lad  leaping  yonder,  in  these  darlings  by  my  side. 

Children's  children,  I  salute  you  !     From  this  hour  and  from  this  land, 
To  your  far-off  generations  I  uplift  the  signal  hand  ! 
Well  contented,  I  resign  you  to  the  vision  which  I  see,  — 
O  fraternity  of  nations  !     O  republics  yet  to  be  ! 

Yours  the  full-blown   flower  of  freedom,  which  in  struggle  we   have 

sown; 

Yours  the  spiritual  science,  that  shall  overarch  our  own. 
You,  in  turn,  will  look  with  wonder,  from  a  more  enlightened  time, 
Upon  us,  your  rude  forefathers,  in  an  age  of  war  and  crime  ! 

Half  our  virtues  will  seem  vices  by  your  broader,  higher  right, 
And  the  brightness  of  the  present  will  be  shadow  in  that  light ; 
For,  behold,  our  boasted  culture  is  a  morning  cloud,  unfurled 
In  the  dawning  of  the  ages  and  the  twilight  of  the  world ! 


264  A   HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

TWOSCORE  AND  TEN 

ACROSS  the  sleepy,  sun-barred  atmosphere 

Of  the  pew-checkered,  square  old  meeting-house, 

Through  the  high  window,  I  could  see  and  hear 
The  far  crows  cawing  in  the  forest  boughs. 

The  earnest  preacher  talked  of  Youth  and  Age  : 
"  Life  is  a  book,  whose  lines  are  flitting  fast ; 

Each  word  a  moment,  every  year  a  page, 
Till,  leaf  by  leaf,  we  quickly  turn  the  last" 

Even  while  he  spoke,  the  sunshine's  witness  crept 
By  many  a  fair  and  many  a  grizzled  head, 

Some  drooping  heavily,  as  if  they  slept, 
Over  the  unspelled  minutes  as  they  sped. 

A  boy  of  twelve,  with  fancies  fresh  and  strong, 
Who  found  the  text  no  cushion  of  repose, 

Who  deemed  the  shortest  sermon  far  too  long, 

My  thoughts  were  in  the  tree-tops  with  the  crows  ; 

Or  farther  still  I  soared,  upon  the  back 

Of  white  clouds  sailing  in  the  shoreless  blue, 

Till  he  recalled  me  from  their  dazzling  track 
To  the  old  meeting-house  and  high-backed  pew. 

"  To  eager  childhood,  as  it  turns  the  leaf, 

How  long  and  bright  the  unread  page  appears  ! 
But  to  the  aged,  looking  back,  how  brief, 

How  brief  the  tale  of  half  a  hundred  years  !  " 

Over  the  drowsy  pews  the  preacher's  word 
Resounded,  as  he  paused  to  wipe  his  brows : 

I  seem  to  hear  it  now,  as  then  I  heard, 
Reechoing  in  the  hollow  meeting-house. 

"  Our  youth  is  gone,  and  thick  and  thicker  come 
The  hoary  years,  like  tempest-driven  snows  ; 
Flies  fast,  flies  fast,  life's  wasting  pendulum, 
And  ever  faster  as  it  shorter  grows" 


TWOSCORE  AND  TEN  265 

My  mates  sat  wondering  wearily  the  while 

How  long  before  his  Lastly  would  come  in, 
Or  glancing  at  the  girls  across  the  aisle, 

Or  in  some  distant  corner  playing  pin. 

But  in  that  moment  to  my  inward  eyes 

A  sudden  window  opened,  and  I  caught 
Through  dazzling  rifts  a  glimpse  of  other  skies, 

The  dizzy  deeps,  the  blue  abyss  of  thought. 

Beside  me  sat  my  father,  grave  and  gray, 

And  old,  so  old,  at  twoscore  years  and  ten ! 
I  said,  "  I  will  remember  him  this  day, 

When  /  am  fifty,  if  I  live  till  then. 

"  I  will  remember  all  I  see  and  hear, 

My  very  thoughts,  and  how  life  seems  to  me, 
This  Sunday  morning  in  my  thirteenth  year ;  — 
How  will  it  seem  when  I  am  old  as  he  ? 

"  What  is  the  work  that  I  shall  find  to  do  ? 

Shall  I  be  worthy  of  his  honored  name  ? 
Poor  and  obscure  ?  or  will  my  dream  come  true, 
My  secret  dream  of  happiness  and  fame  ?  " 

Ah  me,  the  years  betwixt  that  hour  and  this ! 

The  ancient  meeting-house  has  passed  away, 
And  in  its  place  a  modern  edifice 

Invites  the  well-dressed  worshipper  to-day. 

With  it  have  passed  the  well-remembered  faces : 
The  old  are  gone,  the  boys  are  gray-haired  men ; 

They  too  are  scattered,  strangers  fill  their  places  ; 
And  here  am  I  at  twoscore  years  and  ten ! 

How  strangely,  wandering  here  beside  the  sea, 

The  voice  of  crows  in  yonder  forest  boughs, 
A  cloud,  a  Sabbath  bell,  bring  back  to  me 

That  morning  in  the  gaunt  old  meeting-house  ! 


266  A  HOME   IDYL   AND   OTHER  POEMS 

An  oasis  amid  the  desert  years, 

That  golden  Sunday  smiles  as  then  it  smiled  : 
I  see  the  venerated  head  ;  through  tears 

I  see  myself,  that  far-off  wondering  child ! 

The  pews,  the  preacher,  and  the  whitewashed  wall, 
An  imaged  book,  with  careless  children  turning 

Its  awful  pages,  —  I  remember  all ; 

My  very  thoughts,  the  questioning  and  yearning ; 

The  haunting  faith,  the  shadowy  superstition, 
That  I  was  somehow  chosen,  the  special  care 

Of  Powers  that  led  me  through  life's  changeful  vision, 
Spirits  and  Influences  of  earth  and  air. 

In  curious  pity  of  myself,  grown  wise, 

I  think  what  then  I  was  and  dared  to  hope, 

And  how  my  poor  achievements  satirize 

The  boy's  brave  dream  and  happy  horoscope. 

To  see  the  future  flushed  with  morning  fire, 

Rosy  with  banners,  bright  with  beckoning  spears, 

Fresh  fields  inviting  courage  and  desire,  — 
This  is  the  glory  of  our  youthful  years. 

To  feel  the  pettiness  of  prizes  won, 
With  all  our  vast  ambition  ;  to  behold 

So  much  attempted  and  so  little  done,  — 
This  is  the  bitterness  of  growing  old. 

Yet  why  repine  ?     Though  soon  we  care  no  more 
For  triumphs  which,  till  won,  appear  so  sweet, 

They  serve  their  use,  as  toys  held  out  before 
Beguiled  our  infancy  to  try  its  feet. 

Not  in  rewards,  but  in  the  strength  to  strive, 
The  blessing  lies,  and  new  experience  gained ; 

In  daily  duties  done,  hope  kept  alive, 

That  Love  and  Thought  are  housed  and  entertained. 


TWOSCORE  AND  TEN  267 

So  not  in  vain  the  struggle,  though  the  prize 

Awaiting  me  was  other  than  it  seemed. 
My  feet  have  missed  the  paths  of  Paradise, 

Yet  life  is  even  more  blessed  than  I  deemed. 

Riches  I  never  sought,  and  have  not  found, 

And  Fame  has  passed  me  with  averted  eye ; 
In  creeks  and  bays  my  quiet  voyage  is  bound, 

While  the  great  world  without  goes  surging  by. 

No  withering  envy  of  another's  lot, 

Nor  nightmare  of  contention,  plagues  my  rest : 

For  me  alike  what  is  and  what  is  not, 

Both  what  I  have  and  what  I  lack,  are  best. 

A  flower  more  sacred  than  far-seen  success 

Perfumes  my  solitary  path  ;  I  find 
Sweet  compensation  in  my  humbleness, 

And  reap  the  harvest  of  a  tranquil  mind. 

I  keep  some  portion  of  my  early  dream  ; 

Brokenly  bright,  like  moonbeams  on  a  river, 
It  lights  my  life,  a  far  elusive  gleam, 

Moves  as  I  move,  and  leads  me  on  forever. 

Our  earliest  longings  prophesy  the  man, 

Our  fullest  wisdom  still  enfolds  the  child ; 
And  in  my  life  I  trace  that  larger  plan 

Whereby  at  last  all  things  are  reconciled. 

The  storm-clad  years,  the  years  that  howl  and  hasten, 
The  world,  where  simple  faith  soon  grows  estranged, 

Toil,  passion,  loss,  all  things  that  mould  and  chasten, 
Still  leave  the  inmost  part  of  us  unchanged. 

O  boy  of  long  ago,  whose  name  I  bear, 

Small  self,  half-hidden  by  the  antique  pew, 
Across  the  years  I  see  you,  sitting  there, 

Wondering  and  gazing  out  into  the  blue  ; 


268  A  HOME  IDYL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  marvel  at  this  sober,  gray-haired  man 

I  am  or  seem !     How  changed  my  days,  how  tame 

The  wild,  swift  hopes  with  which  my  youth  began  ! 
Yet  in  my  inmost  self  I  am  the  same. 

The  dreamy  soul,  too  sensitive  and  shy, 

The  brooding  tenderness  for  bird  and  flower, 

The  old,  old  wonder  at  the  earth  and  sky, 

And  sense  of  guidance  by  an  Unseen  Power,  — 

These  keep  perpetual  childhood  in  my  heart. 

The  peaks  of  age,  that  looked  so  bare  and  cold, 
Those  peaks  and  I  are  still  as  far  apart 

As  in  the  years  when  fifty  seemed  so  old. 

Age,  that  appeared  far  off  a  bourn  at  rest, 
Recedes  as  I  advance ;  the  fount  of  joy 

Rises  perennial  in  my  grateful  breast ; 
And  still  at  fifty  I  am  but  a  boy. 


BOOK  V 

THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
WITH  NEWLY  GATHERED  LEAVES 


I  ask  my  soul  why,  day  and  night, 
I  pore  and  ponder  and  indite. 

Vainly,  my  life  long,  I  have  sought 
To  find  some  utterance  for  my  thought, 
By  lip  or  pen,  by  word  or  token, 
To  speak  what  in  me  lies  unspoken  ; 
My  tongue  gives  freely  all  the  rest, 
But  locks  the  sweetest  and  the  best. 

I  lived  remote,  I  labored  long, 

In  tale  and  rhyme,  romance  and  song, 

To  sow  that  seed  of  heavenly  wheat 

That  tortures  me  with  inward  heat. 

In  vain  projected,  it  returns, 

And  in  my  bosom  beats  and  burns. 

The  uttered  word  falls  cold  and  dead, 
The  living  word  is  still  unsaid. 
And  should  it  be  my  fate  forever 
To  fail,  in  ceaseless  fond  endeavor, 
To  sow  the  soul's  exhaustless  seed, 
And  reach  to  deeps  that  still  recede, 
I  yet,  by  eldest  law,  must  choose 
The  blissful  thraldom  of  the  Muse, 
Bend  all  to  her  imperious  will, 
And  still  her  last  commands  fulfil. 


THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  LOST  EARL 

WITH  his  lariat  coiled  on  the  horn  of  his  saddle, 

Face  bearded  and  bronzed,  in  the  broad-shadowed  hat ; 
High  boot-tops,  and  fringed  leather  leggings  astraddle 

His  bronco's  brown  sides  ;  pistol-belt,  and  all  that ; 
His  shout  ringing  out,  a  bluff,  resonant  basso, 

Above  the  herd's  bellowing ;  hand  that  can  hurl 
At  a  gallop  the  long-looped  and  wide-swinging  lasso,  — 

There  rides  —  can  you  fancy  ?  —  the  son  of  an  earl. 

With  the  best  and  the  worst  a  familiar  companion  ; 

Who  often  in  winter,  at  twenty  below, 
While  guarding  his  cattle  within  the  deep  cafion, 

Camps  down  in  his  blankets,  rolled  up  on  the  snow  ; 
Bold  rider  and  roper,  to  aid  in  a  round-up, 

Head  off  a  stampede,  run  the  ringleaders  down  : 
In  him  —  does  he  pause  to  remember  ?  —  are  bound  up 

The  hopes  of  a  race  of  old  knightly  renown. 

The  world's  pampered  minion,  he  yet,  in  requital 

Of  all  its  proud  favors,  could  fling  them  aside 
As  a  swimmer  his  raiment,  shed  riches  and  title, 

And  plunge  into  life,  breast  the  turbulent  tide ! 
Some  caprice,  you  infer,  or  a  sudden  declension 

Of  fortune,  the  cause  ?     Rather  say,  the  revolt 
Of  a  strong  native  soul  against  soulless  convention, 

And  privilege  shared  by  the  rou£  and  dolt. 

He  chafed  at  the  gilded  constraints  of  his  station, 
The  bright  ball-and-chain  of  the  name  that  he  bore  ; 


272  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Grew  sick  of  the  smiles  of  discreet  adulation, 

That  worshipped,  not  worth,  but  the  honors  men  wore. 

With  falsities  stifled,  with  flatteries  sated, 

He  loathed,  as  some  player,  his  wearisome  part, 

The  homage  of  lips  where  he  righteously  hated, 
The  rank  that  forbade  him  the  choice  of  his  heart. 

(For  that  choice,  it  is  told,  fell  to  one  far  below  him 

In  station,  who  yet  was  so  loyal  and  true 
In  the  love  which  he  won,  she  could  love  and  forego  him, 

And  even  his  nobleness  nobly  outdo ; 
Who  scorned  to  climb  up  to  a  class  that  would  scorn  to 

Receive  her  its  peer ;  and  refusing  to  dim 
The  coronet's  brightness  her  brow  was  not  born  to, 

Lived  maidenly  faithful  to  love  and  to  him.) 

Was  it  then,  in  despair  at  the  pitiful  wrangle 

His  preference  raised,  he  resolved  to  be  free, 
To  escape  from  his  toils,  break  the  tyrannous  tangle 

Of  custom  and  caste,  of  descent  and  degree  ? 
In  this  lot  which  he  chose,  has  he  sometimes  repented 

The  impulse  that  urged  him  ?     In  scenes  such  as  these, 
Hard  lodgment,  hard  fare,  has  he  never  lamented 

The  days  of  relinquished  enjoyment  and  ease  ? 

Was  that  impulse  a  fault  ?     Would  he  speak,  would  he  tell  us 

His  sober  conclusion !     For  good  or  for  ill, 
There  are  tides  of  the  spirit  which  sometimes  impel  us, 

Sub-currents,  more  potent  than  reason  and  will, 
That  out  of  our  sordid  conditions  uplift  us, 

And  make  our  poor  common  humanity  great. 
We  toy  with  the  helm,  but  they  draw  us,  they  drift  us, 

They  shape  the  deep  courses  of  life  and  of  fate. 

But  then  comes  regret,  when  the  ebb  leaves  us  stranded 
In  doubt  and  disaster  :  was  such  his  reward  ? 

How  much  we  might  gain  would  the  fellow  be  candid, 
This  volunteer  ranchman  who  might  be  a  lord ! 

Could  we  think  with  his  thoughts  as  he  rides  in  the  shadow 
That  falls  from  the  foothills  when,  suddenly  chill, 


THE  LOST  EARL  273 


Far  over  the  mesas  of  lone  Colorado 

The  fast-creeping  twilight  spreads  solemn  and  still. 

From  the  rose-tinted,  snow-covered  peaks,  the  bright  sources 

Of  torrents  and  rivers,  the  glow  pales  away  ; 
Through  canons  and  gulches  the  wild  watercourses 

Rush  hurried  and  hoarse  :  just  the  time,  you  would  say, 
For  our  exile  to  fall  into  sombre  reflection,  — 

The  scion  of  earls,  from  the  uppermost  branch 
Of  the  civilized  tree,  in  its  cultured  perfection, 

Set  here  in  the  desolate  life  of  the  ranch ! 

Amid  wastes  of  gray  sagebrush,  of  grama  and  bunch-grass ; 

The  comrade  of  cowboys,  with  souls  scarce  above 
The  level  of  driven  dumb  creatures  that  munch  grass ; 

Self-banished  from  paths  of  preferment  and  love, 
An  unreturned  prodigal,  mumbling  his  husk : 

At  least  so  your  sapient  soul  has  divined, 
As  he  gallops  far  off  and  forlorn  through  the  dusk. 

But  little  men  know  of  a  man's  hidden  mind. 

In  his  jacket  he  carries  a  thumbed  pocket  Homer, 

To  con  at  odd  spells  as  he  watches  his  herd ; 
And  at  times,  in  his  cottage  (but  that 's  a  misnomer ; 

A  hut  with  one  room  !)  you  may  hear,  on  my  word, 
These  cool  summer  twilights  (in  moments  not  taken 

For  washing  his  dishes  or  darning  his  socks), 
On  strings  deftly  thrummed  a  strange  music  awaken, 

Mazurka  of  Chopin's,  sonata  of  Bach's. 

As  over  the  wide-shouldered  Rockies  the  gleam 

Of  day  yet  illumines  the  vastness  and  distance 
Of  snow-hooded  summits,  so  shines  the  still  beam 

Of  high  thought,  high  resolve,  on  his  lonely  existence. 
(And  a  maiden,  they  say,  of  her  own  sweet  accord, 

Who  to-night  may  be  sailing  the  moonlighted  sea, 
To  the  ranchman  brings  what  she  denied  to  the  lord. 

Idle  rumor,  no  doubt.     But,  however  it  be)  — 

Our  knight  of  the  lasso,  long-lineaged  Norman, 
Now  guiding  his  herd  to  good  pasture  and  drink, 


274  THE   LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Now  buying  and  selling,  stock-owner  and  foreman, 
Feels  life  fresh  and  strong ;  well  content,  as  I  think, 

That  the  world  of  traditional  leisure  and  sport 
Without  him  should  amble  its  indolent  round. 

Though  lost  to  his  title,  to  kindred  and  court, 
Here  first  in  rude  labor  his  manhood  is  found. 

His  conclusion  is  this,  or  I  sadly  mistake  it : 

"  To  each  his  own  part ;  rugged  action  for  me ! 
Be  men,  and  not  masks  ;  fill  your  sphere  or  forsake  it. 

Use  power  and  wealth  ;  but  't  is  time  to  be  free 
When  the  trappings  of  life  prove  a  burden  and  fetter. 

The  walls  of  my  forefather's  castle  are  stanch, 
But  a  cabin,  with  liberty,  shelters  me  better. 

Be  lord  of  your  realm,  be  it  earldom  or  ranch ! " 


HOW  THE  KING  LOST  HIS   CROWN 

THE  King's  men,  when  they  had  slain  the  boar, 

Strung  him  aloft  on  the  fisher's  oar, 

And,  two  behind  and  two  before, 

In  triumph  bore  him  along  the  shore. 

"  An  oar  !  "  says  the  King :  "  't  is  a  trifle  !  —  why 
Did  the  fisher  frown  and  the  good  wife  sigh  ?  " 
"  A  trifle,  sire  !  "  was  the  Fool's  reply  ; 
"  Then  frown  or  laugh  who  will !  for  I, 
Who  laugh  at  all  and  am  only  a  clown, 
Will  never  more  laugh  at  trifles  !  " 

A  runner  next  day  leaped  down  the  sand, 

And  launched  a  skiff  from  the  fisher's  strand  ; 

For  he  cried,  —  "  An  army  invades  the  land ! 

The  passes  are  seized  on  either  hand  ! 

And  I  must  carry  my  message  straight 
Across  the  lake  to  the  castle  gate !  " 
The  castle  he  neared,  but  the  waves  were  great, 
The  f anged  rocks  foamed  like  jaws  of  Fate ; 
And  lacking  an  oar  the  boat  went  down. 
The  Furies  laugh  at  trifles ! 


MY   CAREER  275 


The  swimmer  against  the  waves  began 

To  strive,  as  a  valiant  swimmer  can. 
"  Methinks,"  said  the  Fool,  "  't  were  no  bad  plan 

If  succor  were  sent  to  the  drowning  man !  " 
To  succor  a  perilled  pawn  instead, 
The  monarch,  moving  his  rook  ahead,  — 
Bowed  over  the  chessmen,  white  and  red,  — 
Gave  "  Check  !  "  —  then  looked  on  the  lake  and  said, 
"  The  boat  is  lost,  the  man  will  drown !  " 
O  King !  beware  of  trifles ! 

To  the  lords  and  mirthful  dames  the  bard 
Was  trolling  his  latest  song ;  the  guard 
Were  casting  dice  in  the  castle  yard ; 
And  the  captains  all  were  drinking  hard. 

Then  came  the  chief  of  the  halberdiers, 

And  told  to  the  King's  astounded  ears : 

"  An  army  on  every  side  appears ! 

An  army  with  banners  and  bows  and  spears  ! 

They  have  gained  the  wall  and  surprised  the  town !  " 
Our  fates  are  woven  of  trifles ! 

The  red  usurper  reached  the  throne  ; 

The  tidings  over  the  realm  were  blown  ; 

And,  flying  to  alien  lands  alone 

With  a  trusty  few,  the  King  made  moan. 

But  long  and  loudly  laughed  the  Clown : 
"  We  broke  the  oar  and  the  boat  went  down, 
And  so  the  messenger  chanced  to  drown  : 
The  messenger  lost,  we  lost  the  town  ; 
And  the  loss  of  the  town  has  cost  a  crown  ; 
And  all  these  things  are  trifles  !  " 


MY   CAREER 

MY  mother,  they  said,  was  a  soldier's  child ; 

My  father  played  in  the  band. 
She  was  pretty  and  gay,  he  was  handsome  and  wild, 

And  she  gave  him  her  foolish  hand. 


276  THE   LOST   EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

He  owed  so  much  that  he  could  n't  pay, 
He  borrowed  some  more  and  they  ran  away ; 
But  my  poor  mother,  whom  he  outran, 
Put  up  at  an  almshouse,  where  began 

(I  think  I  never  just  knew  the  year) 
My  career  — 

My  extraordinary  career! 

He  ran  so  well  she  lost  his  track 

In  the  little  delay  I  made  ; 
He  ran  so  far  he  never  came  back, 

And  there,  of  course,  we  stayed ; 
And,  while  the  decrepit  old  pauper  wives 
Tossed  me  about,  she  brightened  the  knives, 
And  set  the  table,  and  swept  the  floor, 
And  scrubbed  as  she  never  had  scrubbed  before ; 

But  still  watched  over,  with  many  a  tear, 
My  career  — 

The  beginning  of  my  career. 

In  lap,  or  cradle,  or  on  all-fours, 

I  thrived,  and  made  my  way, 
And  tumbled  about  the  poor-house  doors, 

Till  a  lady  came,  one  day, 
A  wealthy  widow,  who  begged  for  me. 
"  I  want  your  beautiful  boy,"  says  she, 
"  To  fill  the  place  of  one  I  have  lost. 
I  will  love  him  and  rear  him,  and  spare  no  cost 
To  form  his  mind,  and  give  him,  my  dear, 

A  career  — 
Maybe  a  distinguished  career !  " 

My  mother  took  on  at  a  terrible  rate, 
And  called  it  a  sin  and  a  shame ; 
She  would  keep  her  darling  in  spite  of  fate  ; 

But  consented,  all  the  same. 
To  the  widow's  she  went,  and  left  me  there, 
Then  fled  in  despair,  I  never  knew  where, 
A  childless  mother,  to  mourn  and  roam ; 
While  I  had  luxury,  friends,  and  a  home, 


MY  CAREER  277 


With  everything  that  could  aid  and  cheer 

My  career  — 
My  fortunate  career ! 

My  friends  were  as  kind  as  friends  could  be, 

And  gave  me  teachers  and  books  ; 
But  I  never  could  see  their  use  to  me, 

With  fine  clothes  and  good  looks, 
Money  to  spend,  and  a  fortune  still 
Awaiting  me  in  the  widow's  will. 
So,  very  possibly,  I  looked  down 
On  the  poor,  industrious  youths  in  town, 

And  followed  as  proud  as  a  prince  or  peer, 
My  career  — 

Quite  early,  a  gay  career ! 

I  could  drive  and  dress  and  dance  and  dine, 

With  exquisite  grace  and  dash ; 
My  taste  was  fine  in  horses  and  wine, 

And  I  sported  a  sweet  moustache. 
The  widow,  no  doubt,  sometimes  complained 
Of  the  rather  high  tone  that  I  maintained, 
My  talents  wasted  and  youth  misspent, 
And  wept  at  the  way  her  money  went ; 

For,  though  it  was  pleasant,  I  own  't  was  dear 
My  career 

Was  a  pretty  high-toned  career ! 

"  I  have  lost  a  bet !     I  must  pay  this  debt !  " 

I  coaxed ;  she  could  n't  refuse. 
A  genteel  fellow  sometimes  will  get 

Into  scrapes,  and  where  's  the  use 
Of  having  a  fussy  old  woman  about, 
Who  can't,  or  won't,  help  a  fellow  out  ? 
I  rushed  from  her  presence  a  hundred  times, 
And  threatened  to  plunge  into  horrid  crimes, 

To  end  as  a  robber  or  buccaneer 
My  career  — 

My  desperate  career ! 


278  THE   LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

It  was  long  to  wait  for  a  grand  estate, 

But  I  was  in  luck  at  last. 
I  was  tall  and  straight,  I  was  twenty-eight, 

And,  though  a  trifle  fast, 
A  party  the  girls  were  mad  to  catch ! 
Considered  a  most  amazing  match 
By  smiling  mammas  and  bowing  papas, 
And  a  deucedly  delicate  thing  it  was, 

With  sirens  on  every  side,  to  steer 
My  career  — 

Safely  my  free  career  ! 

For  why  should  I  marry,  and  have  the  care 

Of  children  and  a  wife  ? 
JT  was  burden  enough,  by  George  !  to  bear 

My  own  light  butterfly  life  — 
A  thing  I  never  could  understand ! 
With  fashion  and  wealth,  gay  friends  at  hand, 
No  thought  for  another,  there  weighed  on  me 
At  times  such  weariness  and  ennui 

As  few  would  have  fancied  could  come  near 
My  career  — 

My  enviable  career ! 

Yet  I  should  state  that  I  chose  a  mate, 

For  a  very  good  cause,  indeed. 
It  was  rather  late  ;  I  was  forty-eight ; 

My  moustache  had  gone  to  seed ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  one  day  I  found 
My  fortune  was  high  and  dry  aground  ! 
So  I  looked  about,  resolved  to  win 
Some  widow,  as  rich  as  my  first  had  been, 

From  the  rubbish  of  beggarly  debts  to  clear 
My  career  — 

My  really  superb  career! 

Too  lucky  by  half,  I  may  say  it  now, 

Was  I  when  I  went  to  woo. 
I  never  could  get  along,  somehow, 
With  Widow  Number  Two. 


MY   CAREER  279 


A  woman  of  taste,  she  could  n't  but  be 

In  love  with  an  elegant  man  like  me  ; 

But  she  was  a  shrew,  and  she  soon  took  fright, 

Drew  her  prim  lips  and  her  purse-strings  tight, 

And  eyed  with  an  eye  quite  too  severe 
My  career  — 

Jealous  of  my  career  ! 

She  scrimped  me  up  and  she  screwed  me  down, 

In  a  most  ridiculous  way. 
For  a  man  of  renown,  the  beau  of  the  town, 

'T  was  extremely  little  pay. 
There  never  was  husband  fond  as  I  — 
Particularly  when  she  came  to  die ; 
But  in  her  will  she  was  cruel  still, 
And  cut  me  off,  by  a  codicil, 

With  hardly  enough  to  maintain  a  mere 
Mean  career ! 

A  pittance  for  my  career ! 

Of  the  schemes  I  tried  when  drifting  about 

There 's  little  enough  to  tell. 
As  a  mixer  of  fancy  drinks,  no  doubt, 

I  might  have  succeeded  well. 
I  had  no  other  art  or  trade ; 
And  the  fine,  rich  friends  I  asked  for  aid 
Grew  cold,  scarce  deigning  at  times  to  use 
A  word  of  pity  or  poor  excuse ; 

But  viewing  with  secret  glee,  I  fear, 
My  career  — 

My  steady  down-hill  career  ! 

My  buttoned  coat  had  a  hungry  look  ; 

I  sponged  from  bar  to  bar  ; 
Whoever  would  trust  or  treat,  I  took 

A  glass  or  a  bad  cigar. 
Homeless,  alone,  I  walked  the  street ; 
The  old  faces  now  that  I  chanced  to  meet 
Passed  by,  with  a  smile  at  my  altered  style, 
My  tight  cravat,  and  my  battered  tile  ; 


280  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  jubilant  youngsters  turned  to  jeer 

My  career  — 
My  often  zigzag  career  ! 

No  need  to  relate  what  buffets  of  fate 

I  afterward  underwent. 
I  am  feeble  of  gait ;  I  am  sixty-eight ; 

My  back  and  my  knees  are  bent. 
To  the  passers-by  I  have  held  my  hat ; 
But,  Heaven  be  thanked,  there 's  an  end  of  that ! 
To  the  poor-house  I  have  come  home,  at  last, 
To  the  poor-house  where  my  first  years  passed, 

Old  and  infirm,  to  finish  here 
My  career  — 

My  rather  played-out  career ! 


CAPTAIN  SEABORN 


OUR  ship  went  down,  and  not  a  boat 

Outrode  the  storm's  intensity  ; 
But  I  alone  was  left  afloat 

Upon  the  blue  immensity  : 
My  raft  and  I  together  lashed, 

The  wild  seas  racing  under  us, 
Till  reefs  uprose,  and  breakers  dashed 

About  us,  blind  and  thunderous. 

Still,  like  Mazeppa  to  his  horse, 

I  clung,  while,  half  submerging  me, 
On  foaming  shoals  with  fearful  force 

The  winds  and  waves  were  urging  me. 
I  swooned  :  I  woke  :  my  dim  eyes  glanced 

Upon  a  hideous  rabblement 
Of  islanders  that  round  me  pranced 

With  frantic  yells  and  babblement. 

Half-drowned  they  dragged  me  from  the  sea 
Up  the  white  beach,  and,  seating  me 


CAPTAIN  SEABORN  281 

Against  a  skull-encircled  tree, 

Made  ghastly  signs  of  eating  me. 
The  frizzled  women  crouched  to  look 

My  body  over  curiously ; 
The  tattooed  braves  above  me  shook 

Their  battle-axes  furiously. 

Forth  from  my  sailor's  pouch,  to  buy 

My  life  of  those  fell  savages, 
I  drew  such  slight  effects  as  I 

Had  saved  from  the  sea's  ravages. 
With  thimble,  coins,  carved  ivory  ball, 

I  flattered  and  invited  them  ; 
A  rusted  jack-knife,  most  of  all, 

Astonished  and  delighted  them. 

Then  fruits  they  brought  and  mats  they  spread 

With  singular  celerity : 
Not  death  I  gained,  but  gifts  instead, 

And  cannibal  prosperity. 
I  lived  with  them  and  learned  their  speech  ; 

I  curbed  their  fierce  brutality, 
And  strove  with  simple  truths  to  reach 

Their  dim  spirituality. 

The  arts  of  peace,  the  love  of  right, 

I  tried  to  teach ;  economy 
Of  health ;  what  makes  the  day  and  night  — 

Some  notion  of  astronomy  ; 
Treatment  of  neighbors  at  a  feast  — 

More  genial  ways  of  toasting  them  ; 
To  love  their  fellow-men,  at  least 

A  little,  without  roasting  them. 

No  white  sail  found  those  coral  bays, 

Wide  rings  of  reefs  defending  them ; 
And  so  I  lived  my  savage  days, 

With  little  hope  of  ending  them. 
Three  frightful  years  !     Though  loved  by  some, 

A  priest-led  faction  hated  me, 


282  THE  LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Until  it  seemed  that  martyrdom, 
For  all  my  pains,  awaited  me. 

Fearful  of  change,  and  not  content 

With  foiling  and  defeating  me, 
My  enemies  once  more  were  bent 

On  finishing  and  eating  me. 
In  no  wise  wishing  to  assist 

At  any  such  festivities, 
(All  the  more  reason  to  resist 

Their  cannibal  proclivities !) 

With  scant  provisions  snatched  in  haste 

My  small  canoe  encumbering, 
Into  the  round  sea's  rolling  waste, 

While  all  the  isle  was  slumbering, 
One  midnight,  when  the  low  late  moon 

Across  the  shoals  was  shimmering, 
I  paddled,  from  the  still  lagoon 

And  channel  darkly  glimmering. 

Five  days  adrift !  the  indolent 

Warm  waves  about  me  weltering : 
The  suns  were  fierce,  my  food  was  spent, 

And  I  was  starved  and  sweltering  : 
When  ho !  a  ship !     How  strange  to  meet 

Fair  manners  and  urbanity  ! 
How  strange  my  native  speech,  how  sweet 

The  accents  of  humanity ! 

II 

Thus  all  my  efforts  to  redeem 

That  sinister  society 
Were  left  behind,  a  nightmare  dream 

Of  horror  and  anxiety. 
My  changeful  life  was  full  and  fleet ; 

But  long  the  hope  attended  me, 
To  see  that  land  again,  and  greet 

The  chiefs  who  once  befriended  me. 


CAPTAIN  SEABORN  283 

So,  as  I  sailed  those  seas  once  more, 

When  many  years  had  passed  away, 
My  ship  dropped  anchor  off  the  shore 

Where  I  had  been  a  castaway. 
Amid  the  reefs  we  rowed  to  land, 

And,  eager  as  a  lover  is 
To  seek  his  mistress,  to  the  strand 

I  strode,  to  make  discoveries. 

Less  changed  than  my  own  life  appeared 

The  wondrous  island  scenery  ; 
Near  by,  the  groves  of  cocoa  reared 

Their  fans  of  waving  greenery  ; 
There  the  old,  shaggy,  cane-thatched  town ; 

And,  habited  still  sparingly, 
The  islanders  came  straggling  down, 

And  heard  my  questions  staringly. 

With  signs  of  woe  their  arms  they  flung 

When  I,  in  broken  sentences 
Of  their  well-nigh  forgotten  tongue, 

Inquired  for  old  acquaintances. 
"  Dead  !  dead  !  "  my  friendly  chiefs  and  they 

Who  from  the  isle  had  driven  me. 
But  when  I  spoke  my  sobriquet, 

The  name  the  tribe  had  given  me, 

'Twas  strange  !  the  sudden  eagerness 

And  zeal  with  which  they  greeted  it. 
"  Son-of-the-Great-Sea-Mother  ?  yes  !  "  — 

They  joyfully  repeated  it. 
"  He 's  there  !  "  —  They  pointed.     Bound  to  know 

W^hat  this  amazing  blunder  meant, 
Forthwith  I  followed  to  a  low, 
Rude  door,  in  utter  wonderment. 

Their  temple  !  lined  with  sacred  stones 

And  heathen  curiosities  ; 
Dried  birds  and  fishes,  reptiles'  bones, 

And  various  monstrosities  ; 


284  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Relics  and  charms,  strung  round  the  place, 
Trophies  of  fights  and  scrimmages  ; 

And,  propped  behind  the  central  space, 
The  rudest  of  carved  images,  — 

Which  I  myself  with  shells  and  knife 

Had  shaped,  in  my  captivity ! 
A  task  to  keep  my  heart  and  life 

From  purposeless  passivity. 
The  mouth  too  wide,  too  short  the  nose, 

How  well  I  recollected  it ! 
Now  here,  a  grinning  idol,  those 

Sad  wretches  had  erected  it ; 

Tricked  and  bedizened  in  a  style 

Preposterous  and  laughable ! 
I  gazed ;  the  guardian  priest  the  while 

Eyeing  me,  grimly  affable. 
Swarthy  and  sleek,  with  hideous  smirk 

Admitting  me  to  see  it,  he 
Called  it  grand  magic,  handiwork 

And  image  of  their  deity ! 

"  Out  of  the  ocean,  in  his  sleep," 

('T  was  hard  to  listen  seriously  !) 
"  He  came  to  us,  and  in  the  deep 

Vanished  again  mysteriously. 
He  taught  our  people  "  (thus  the  priest's 

Narration  is  translatable) 
"  To  discontinue  at  their  feasts 

Some  customs  he  found  hatable ; 

"  Not  to  hunt  men,  although  we  were, 

As  now,  a  strong  and  bold  people ; 
Nor  beat  our  women  ;  nor  inter 

Alive  our  sick  and  old  people ; 
To  have  more  clothes  and  fewer  wives, 

With  houses  more  commodious ; 
To  speak  true  words,  and  make  our  lives 

In  other  ways  less  odious. 


CAPTAIN  SEABORN  285 

"  These  changes  we  found  politic, 

Though  backward  in  assuming  them. 
So  now  we  leave  our  old  and  sick 

To  starve,  before  inhuming  them. 
While  yet  some  rich  men  on  the  coast 

Practice  the  old  polygamy, 
The  poor  have  one  wife,  or,  at  most, 

Restrict  themselves  to  bigamy. 

"  And  though  some  warriors  of  renown 

Continue  anthropophagous, 
'T  is  rare  that  human  flesh  goes  down 

The  low  caste  man's  03sophagus. 
Woman  we  seldom  beat,  while  she 

Is  faithful  and  obedient ; 
We  only  hunt  an  enemy, 

And  lie  when  it 's  expedient. 

"  Old  men  remember,  still  a  few, 

How  he  appeared  and  talked  with  them ; 
Though  not  till  he  was  gone  they  knew 

A  deity  had  walked  with  them. 
This  image  in  his  hands  became 

The  very  form  and  face  of  him  ; 
So  now  we  call  it  by  his  name, 

And  worship  it  in  place  of  him ; 

"  And  in  our  sorceries  draw  from  it 

Responses  and  admonishment." 
All  which  I  heard  with  infinite 

Misgiving  and  astonishment, 
That  fable  thus  should  swallow  fact, 

And  truth  to  myth  degenerate, 
And  I  by  wooden  proxy  act 

The  god,  for  tribes  to  venerate  ! 

I  said,  "  The  being  you  adore, 

Who  came  and  went  in  mystery, 
Was  but  a  sailor  washed  ashore  !  " 

And  told  the  simple  history. 


286  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  My  words  and  work  your  prophets  foiled, 

They  treated  me  despitefully, 
And  I  escaped."     The  priest  recoiled, 
And  glared  upon  me  frightfully. 

"  And  as  for  this  dumb  log  "  —  I  felt 

Such  absolute  disgust  with  it, 
I  twirled  my  walking-stick  and  dealt 

An  inconsiderate  thrust  with  it. 
"  Taboo  !  taboo  ! "     Too  late  the  call : 

The  clumsy  idol  fell  at  once 
Against  the  mummies  on  the  wall, 
The  rattling  skins  and  skeletons. 

The  priest,  in  horror  at  my  speech, 

Had  glared,  aghast  and  stammering  ; 
But  now  he  raised  his  warning  screech, 

And  half  the  tribe  came  clamoring. 
My  comrades  hurried  me  away, 

While,  close  behind  us  clattering, 
The  mob  pursued  us  to  the  bay, 

And  clubs  and  stones  fell  pattering. 

Embarking,  we  in  haste  let  fall 

The  gifts  which  I  had  brought  for  them, 
But  more  than  this,  alas  for  all 

My  hopes  !    I  could  do  naught  for  them ; 
Nor  could  I  venture  more  among 

The  clans  of  that  vicinity, 
Because  I  had  with  impious  tongue 

Denied  my  own  divinity. 


THE  KANSAS  FARMER 

WE  talked  or  read,  or  idly  sat  beholding, 

Betwixt  the  wire-strung  poles  and  April  sky, 

From  dawn  till  dusk,  the  endlessly  unfolding, 
Swift  panorama  of  the  land  sweep  by. 


THE   KANSAS   FARMER  287 

The  twilight  closed  upon  a  lonesome  prairie,  — 

A  paling  sunset  pierced  by  one  faint  star, 
Above  a  house  low-browed  and  solitary, 

Seen  from  the  windows  of  our  passing  car. 

For  miles  there  was  no  other  habitation. 

Out  from  a  neighboring  marsh  a  heron  took  flight, 
Rose,  gray  and  silent  as  an  exhalation, 

And  grew  a  speck  far  in  the  fading  light. 

Framed  by  the  doorway  in  the  frowning  gable, 

The  figure  of  a  man  stood  dark  and  still ; 
No  roof  beside,  but  just  a  turf-walled  stable, 

Half-thatched  with  grass,  half-sunken  in  the  hill. 

A  solemn  mule  couched  on  his  bony  haunches  ; 

A  lank  sow  leaned  and  rubbed  against  her  sty ; 
No  tree,  but  one  bare  locust,  in  whose  branches 

Turkeys  were  roosting,  black  against  the  sky. 

The  man  stood  gazing,  gaunt  of  frame  and  gloomy  ; 

So  melancholy  and  so  motionless, 
A  sharp  compassionating  thrill  shot  through  me, 

With  thinking  of  his  utter  loneliness. 

Far  from  the  cheerful  light  of  human  faces, 

The  glow  of  friendly  converse,  how  could  he 
Endure  a  lot  as  bare  of  all  the  graces 

As  the  surrounding  hills  of  house  or  tree  ? 

He  gazed  as  if  with  sad  surmise  and  longing,  — 

As  thick  as  sparks  above  the  rushing  train, 
His  kindled  thoughts  and  aspirations  thronging 

Toward  some  great  good  which  he  could  never  gain. 

He  saw  each  day  that  mighty,  thundering  shuttle 

Across  the  continent  hurled  to  and  fro ; 
But  of  the  life,  the  invisible  and  subtle 

Wide  web  it  wove,  how  little  could  he  know ! 


288  THE   LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

The  train  flew  on,  and,  snugly  housed  within  it, 

We  saw  the  lonely  exile  left  behind ; 
But  not  till  that  brief  vision  of  a  minute 

Was  photographed  forever  in  the  mind. 

The  train  sped  on  with  loud,  relentless  clanging ; 

But  gentler  fancies  in  my  heart  awoke, 
As  I  recalled,  in  the  wan  twilight  hanging 

Above  his  roof,  a  wreath  of  cottage  smoke. 

Symbol  of  household  cheer  the  whole  world  over ! 

Perfect  contentment  brims  no  mortal  breast ; 
The  dweller  with  the  prairie-dog  and  gopher, 

No  doubt,  has  his  due  portion  with  the  rest. 

His  evening  meal  upon  the  coals  was  cooking ; 

A  babe,  I  fain  would  think,  made  glad  the  house ; 
A  wife,  I  'm  sure  ;  but  he  was  anxious,  looking 

To  see  his  boys  come  driving  home  the  cows. 

No  thought  had  he  to  join  the  world's  great  battle, 
Or  follow  in  the  ranks  of  wealth  and  pride. 

His  home,  his  farm,  his  own  small  herd  of  cattle, 
These  are  his  world  ;  he  knows  no  world  beside. 

Though  few  of  life's  fair  consolations  enter 

The  door,  to  us  so  desolate  and  dim, 
That  cabin  on  the  prairie  is  the  centre 

Of  the  round  earth  and  rolling  heavens  to  him. 

He,  too,  —  so  fancy  runs,  —  has  his  ambition : 
To  build  a  barn,  renew  that  two  years'  loan, 

Improve  each  day  a  little  his  condition, 

And  leave  his  children's  better  than  his  own. 

To  petty  cares,  the  lack  of  tools  and  fences, 

To  rains,  droughts,  weeds,  the  price  of  pork  and  corn, 

He  gives  his  years  ;  yet  finds  its  recompenses 
Even  in  the  life  we  picture  so  forlorn. 


A   MOTHER'S  TRAGEDY  289 

Man,  to  the  last  a  child,  who  still  amuses 

Himself  all  day  with  trifles  great  and  small, 
Cherishes  most  the  few  poor  toys  he  uses, 

But,  given  too  many,  learns  to  scorn  them  all. 

Sweeter  than  ease,  sometimes,  is  rude  privation ; 

Less  tedious  than  long  leisure  to  live  through 
Are  days  full  packed  with  healthful  occupation  ; 

Too  many  friends  as  irksome  as  too  few. 

How  little  for  our  daily  need  suffices, 

Could  each  but  know,  contented  with  his  share  I 

The  frugal  dish,  that  luxury  despises, 

Is  to  the  humble  sweet  and  wholesome  fare. 

With  hope,  a  constant,  cloud-illuming  crescent, 

With  love,  and  work  for  head  or  hands,  these  three, 

Alike  the  mightiest  king  or  lowliest  peasant 
Finds  life  worth  living,  each  in  his  degree. 

Culture  and  gold  are  good,  but  not  by  building 

More  stately  porches  may  we  look  to  win 
Peace  to  our  dwelling ;  nor  by  gayly  gilding 

The  fountain  can  we  raise  the  flood  within. 

We  ply  the  fount  with  toil  and  rest  and  revel, 

One  casts  in  empires,  and  one  bagatelles ; 
Still  happiness  in  men  will  seek  its  level, 

As  water  from  one  source  in  many  wells. 


A  MOTHER'S   TRAGEDY 

HE  fell  in  a  wayside  brawl,  not  far  from  his  mother's  door. 
We  picked  him  up,  two  or  three  of  us ;  one  ran  on  before, 
To  give  her  a  decent  warning,  while  we  turned  into  the  place, 
Lugging  him,  horribly  limp,  with  his  hat  laid  over  his  face. 

We  heard  a  sharp  voice  in  the  doorway:  "Don't  fear  but  I  shall  be 

strong ! 
What  is  one  sorrow  the  more  to  a  heart  that  is  seared  with  wrong  ? 


290  THE  LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

My  son  ?  something  dreadful !     They  Ve  killed  him !  "     And  tearless, 

terrible  eyes 
Looked  down  on  us  and  our  burden  :    no  wringing  of  hands,  nor  cries : 

But,  going  before,  she  cleared  the  lounge  that  we  laid  him  on  ; 
Uncovered  with  her  own  hand  the  face  upstaring  and  wan, 
The  small,  dark  wound  in  the  temple,  and  slow,  dull  trickling  red ; 
Then  writhed  in  a  spasm  of  horror  and  agony  over  the  dead. 

The  doctors  came  and  looked  grave ;   there  was  nothing  more  to  be 

done; 

And  there  the  old  mother  sat  by  the  side  of  her  murdered  son, 
Rigid,  erect,  and  under  her  neatly  combed  white  hair 
Her  gleaming  features  fixed  in  a  frozen  and  fierce  despair. 

The  neighbors  gathered  round,  where  she  sat  tearless  and  grim ; 
Full  of  compassion  for  her,  but  hardly  sorry  for  him ; 
Full  of  compassion  for  her,  but  wondering  if,  on  the  whole, 
'T  were  better  to  wish  her  joy,  or  weakly  attempt  to  console. 

She  seemed  to  fathom  their  thoughts :  "  Yes,  little  cause,"  she  said, 
"  Did  ever  he  give  while  living,  that  I  should  mourn  for  him  dead ! 
And  life  is  so  full  of  misfortunes  that  death  seems  far  from  the 

worst. 
Yet  he  is  the  babe  of  my  bosom,  the  child  I  have  borne  and  nursed. 

"  The  same  ?     Oh,  merciful  powers  !  't  was  well  that  I  could  n't  see 
On  the  innocent  forehead  I  kissed  the  horror  that  was  to  be ! 
Not  see  these  clotted  locks  in  the  silky  hair  I  curled  — 
The  happiest  mother  and  prettiest  baby  in  all  the  world. 

"  He  sickened,  too,  that  summer,  just  after  his  father  died ; 
And  well  do  I  recollect  how  I  clung  to  him  then,  and  cried, 
And  called  on  the  cruel  fates,  and  promised  to  forgive 
All  their  unkindness  to  me,  if  only  my  child  might  live. 

"  '  Spare  him  ! '  I  said,  '  whatever  my  widowed  life  must  bear ; 
Spare  him ! '    And  the  cruel  fates,  in  mockery  of  my  prayer  — 
Or  was  it  Heaven,  to  punish  my  obduracy  and  pride  ?  — 
Seemed  in  mercy  to  grant  what  mercy  would  have  denied. 


A  MOTHER'S  TRAGEDY  291 

"  There  are  sons  who  honor  their  mothers ;   and  is  there  an  earthly 

j°y 

Like  hers  who  watches  the  growth  in  grace  of  her  one  dear  boy  ? 

But  look  at  us  now,  and  tell  me  if  ever  I  was  one 

That  dreamt  she  was  such  a  mother  and  he  would  be  such  a  son ! 

"  I  bore  with  his  childish  passions,  and  petted  his  whims,  until 
They  grew  to  be  snarling  faults  of  ingratitude  and  self-will. 
I  tried  to  curb  and  restrain  them,  but  they  were  too  fierce  and  strong, 
And  they  turned  and  tore  the  hand  that  had  fostered  them  too  long. 

"  I  hid  in  my  heart,  and  pardoned,  whatever  wrong  he  had  done ; 
And  strangers  said  :  '  What  a  treasure  you  have  in  your  only  son ! ' 
And  oh !  he  was  fair  to  behold !     And  I  marveled  how  he  could  be 
Always  so  kind  to  others,  and  never  kind  to  me. 

"  Upon  those  who  gave  him  least,  he  could  smile  like  an  angel  of  light ; 
Upon  me,  who  gave  him  most,  he  vented  his  anger  and  spite. 
Was  it  his,  or  mine,  the  fault  ?    And  whose,  at  last,  was  the  blame, 
When  the  fire  in  his  blood  broke  out  in  open  riot  and  shame  ? 

"  He  was  as  he  was :  perverse  —  a  nature  that  understood 
Nothing  of  self-denial,  of  duty  or  gratitude ; 
No  aim  but  the  hour's  enjoyment,  no  higher  ambition  on  earth 
Than  just  to  be  ranked  good  fellow  with  fellows  of  shallow  worth. 

"  With  a  greed  that  had  no  eyes  to  see  beyond  the  day, 
Me  and  my  slender  savings  he  looked  upon  as  his  prey ; 
In  the  sieve  of  self-indulgence  pouring  his  powers  and  gains  ; 
Never  counting  the  cost  in  future  losses  and  pains. 

"  He  was  as  he  was :  if  your  boy  is  born  with  a  crippled  limb, 
Or  blind,  or  deaf,  do  you  think  of  laying  the  blame  on  him  ? 
And  one  is  infirm  of  reason,  and  one  is  deformed  of  soul, 
And  one,  a  Goliath  of  passion,  a  pigmy  in  self-control. 

"  He  was  as  he  was,  from  his  birth  —  no  will  or  wish  of  his  own ; 
Or  the  will  was  flesh  of  his  flesh,  the  wish  was  bone  of  his  bone. 
It  is  easy  to  say,  we  are  free  to  follow  evil  or  good ; 
Whatever  we  follow  or  leave,  the  choice  is  in  our  blood. 


292  THE  LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

"  Oh,  yes  !  he  should  have  cared  for  good  men's  counsel  and  praise, 
And  heeded  the  pleading  love  that  strove  with  him  all  his  days. 
But  the  force  that  obeys  the  magnet  is  not  in  stone,  but  in  steel ; 
And  the  secret  is  in  ourselves  of  the  influences  we  feel. 

"  He  was  as  he  was  !     He  was  born  so !     No  need  to  question  why 
He  was  cursed  with  faults  that  neither  his  father  had  nor  I. 
Traits  good  in  themselves  sometimes  appear  in  strange  excess, 
And  generous  heats  flame  out  in  folly  and  recklessness. 

"  You  sooner  might  track  the  wind,  or  an  underground  stream  to  its 

source, 

Than  some  inherited  taint  through  its  hidden  and  fitful  course, 
The  vice  that  has  lurked  so  long  in  generations  past, 
To  burst  its  decent  bounds  and  rage  in  our  sons  at  last. 

"  He  was  as  he  was  ;  accuse  him,  excuse  him,  what  you  will ; 
And  I,  who  have  loved  him  most,  and  pitied,  accuse  him  still. 
For,  though  we  may  bear  and  forbear,  and  pardon,  and  suffer  long, 
The  right  is  forever  right,  and  the  wrong  is  eternally  wrong. 

"  And  I  am  his  mother  ;  and  all  that  is  left  of  my  boy  lies  there ! 
The  frolic  of  youth,  and  the  frenzy,  alternate  sport  and  despair ; 
Desire  that  would   have   dissolved  —  a   mere   lump  in   his   cup  —  the 

earth ! 
Gone  out  like  a  flame  that  is  quenched,  like  a  fire  that  is  dead  on  the 

hearth. 

"  I  can   neither  rejoice   nor  grieve  —  my  heart   is   like   stone   in   my 

breast. 
He  was  naught  but  a  burden  and  thorn,  and  I  know  that  what  is,  is 

best. 

Yet  I  shall  be  lost  without  him.     The  very  trouble  and  care 
That  pass  with  him  out  of  my  life  will  leave  it  empty  and  bare. 

"  I  would  hope  ;  I  would  pray  for  him  !     Is  there  another  and  happier 

sphere, 

Where  the  soul  may  arise  from  the  cloud  of  evil  that  clung  to  it  here  ? 
Or  has  he  rushed  into  that  world  all  aflame  with  the  passions  of  this  ? 
I  would  hope ;  I  would  know !  I  cannot  look  into  the  dark  abyss ! 


AFTER  THE  SALE  293 

"  Maybe  not  all  are  immortal ;  the  souls  of  sinners  may  die, 
Burn  briefly  in  Heaven,  and  vanish,  like  meteors  dropped  in  our  sky. 
I  shall  follow  him  soon,  I  shall  follow  ;  and  oh !  that  our  spirits  may  live, 
If  only  to  know  each  other,  to  know  and  embrace  and  forgive ! " 

The  neighbors  gathered  near,  and  departed,  one  by  one  ; 
And  there  the  old  mother  sat  by  the  side  of  her  murdered  son, 
With  ever  the  icy  despair,  the  look  out  of  eyes  that  had  shed 
So  many  tears  for  the  living,  they  had  none  to  weep  for  the  dead. 


AFTER  THE   SALE 

THE  wagon,  with  high  fantastic  load 

Of  household  goods,  is  at  the  gate  ; 
The  shadows  darken  down  the  road ; 

Why  does  the  old  man  wait  ? 
Bureau,  bedstead,  rocking-chair, 
Upturned  table  with  heels  in  air,  — 
Whatever  the  grudging  fates  would  spare,  — 
Lie  huddled  and  heaped  and  tumbled  there, 
A  melancholy  freight ! 

"  Of  all  his  riches,"  the  teamster  said, 

"  Now  only  this  precious  pile  remains ! 

A  blanket  and  bed  for  his  old  gray  head, 
For  all  his  life-long  pains. 

Hard  case,  I  own  !  but  they  say  that  Pride 

Must  have  a  fall."     His  ropes  he  tied 

In  the  chill  March  wind.     "  Hurry  up  !  "  he  cried, 
And  gathered  in  the  reins. 

The  old  wife  bows  her  stricken  face 

On  the  doorstone,  weary  and  worn  and  gray. 
The  old  man  lingers  about  the  place, 

Taking  a  last  survey  ; 

Looks  in  once  more  at  the  great  barn  door, 
On  the  empty  mow  and  the  vacant  floor : 
All  the  gains  of  his  life  have  gone  before, 

And  why  should  he  care  to  stay  ? 


294  THE   LOST   EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Only  a  stool  with  a  broken  leg 

Is  left,  and  a  bucket  without  a  bail. 

The  harness  is  gone  from  hook  and  peg, 
Even  the  whip  from  its  nail : 

Dreary  shadows  hang  from  the  wall. 

No  friendly  whinny  from  shed  or  stall, 

Nor  unmilked  heifer's  welcoming  call ; 

The  poultry  and  pigs  have  vanished,  all 
Swept  out  by  the  sheriff's  sale. 

Back  to  the  dooryard  well  he  goes 

For  a  parting  look,  a  farewell  drink. 

How  drippingly  that  bucket  rose 

And  poised  for  him  on  the  brink, 

In  the  summers  gone,  and  plashed  his  feet, 

When  the  men  came  in  from  the  harvest  heat ! 

How  blessedly  cool  the  draught,  how  sweet, 
'T  is  misery  now  to  think. 

What  scenes  of  peaceful,  prosperous  life 

Once  filled  the  yard,  so  desolate  now ! 
When  he  often  would  say  to  his  pleased,  proud  wife, 

That  the  farm  appeared,  somehow, 
More  thrifty  and  cheery  than  other  men's, 
With  its  cattle  in  pasture  and  swine  in  pens, 
Bleating  of  lambs  and  cackle  of  hens, 
And  well-stored  crib  and  mow. 

The  early  years  of  their  proud  success, 

The  years  of  failure  and  mutual  blame, 
Are  past,  with  the  toil  that  was  happiness, 

And  the  strife  that  was  sorrow  and  shame. 
She  came  to  him  hopeful  and  strong  and  fair  — 
Now  who  is  the  sad  wraith  sitting  there, 
With  her  burden  of  grief,  and  her  old  thin  hair, 
Bowed  over  her  feeble  frame  ? 

"  Do  you  remember  ?     This  well,"  he  said, 

"  Was  sunk  that  summer  when  Jane  was  born. 


AFTER  THE  SALE  295 

She  used  to  stand  in  the  old  house-shed 

And  blow  the  dinner-horn, 
In  after  years,  —  or  climb  a  rail 
Of  the  dooryard  fence  for  a  cheery  hail,  — 
Then  run  to  the  curb  for  a  brimming  pail, 

When  I  came  up  from  the  corn." 

Why  think  of  her  now  ?  against  whose  name 
His  lips  and  heart  long  since  were  sealed  ; 

Whose  memory  in  their  lives  became 
A  sorrow  that  never  has  healed. 

Her  step  is  on  the  creaking  stair, 

Her  girlish  image  is  everywhere  ! 

He  hears  her  laughter,  he  sees  her  hair 

Blow  back  in  the  wind,  as  she  comes  to  bear 
His  luncheon  to  the  field. 

"  'T  was  a  terrible  wrong  !  "     The  old  wife  spoke, 

Swaying  her  gaunt  frame  to  and  fro. 
"  I  '11  say  it  now !  "     Her  strained  voice  broke 

Into  a  wail  of  woe. 

<l  It  haunts  me  awake,  it  haunts  me  asleep  ! 
And  silence  has  been  so  hard  to  keep  — 
So  long !  —  but  there  is  a  grief  too  deep 
For  ever  a  man  to  know  ! " 

A  quaver  of  anguish  shook  his  tone, 

His  look  was  pierced  with  a  keen  remorse : 
"  The  blame,  I  suppose,  was  all  my  own ; 
And  I  have  no  heart,  of  course ! 

Great  Heaven  !  nor  any  grief  to  hide  !  " 

Lifting  his  gloomy  hat  aside, 

He  looked  up,  haggard  and  hollow-eyed, 

Like  one  whose  burning  soul  had  dried 
His  tears  at  their  very  source. 

"  No,  no !     I  don't  mean  that,"  she  wept. 

"  I  've  felt  you  suffering  many  a  day, 
And  often  at  night  when  you  thought  I  slept, 
And  when  I  have  heard  you  pray, 


296  THE  LOST   EAKL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Until  it  seemed  that  my  heart  would  burst. 
And  as  for  the  blame,  you  know,  at  first, 
I  claimed  you  were  right,  and  did  my  worst 
To  force  her  to  obey. 

"  For  the  dream  of  our  lives  had  been  to  make 

Our  Jane  a  lady  fit  for  a  lord ; 
Our  schemes  were  all  for  our  children's  sake,, 

And  it  seemed  a  cruel  reward 
To  see  her  with  careless  scorn  refuse  — 
For  all  the  arguments  we  could  use  — 
The  men  you  most  approved,  and  choose 
The  one  you  most  abhorred. 

"  But  when  she  had  chosen  and  all  was  done, 

You  need  n't  have  been  so  hard  and  stern, 
We  might  have  forgiven  the  poor  dear  one, 

And  welcomed  her  return. 
You  never  could  know  what  she  was  to  mey 
You  never  will  know  how  I  yearn  to  see 
My  child  again  —  how  homesickly 
I  yearn,  and  yearn,  and  yearn  ! 

"  She  chose  for  herself,  and  who  can  tell  ? 

She  braved  your  will,  it 's  true,  and  yet 
She  may,  for  all  that,  have  chosen  well. 

And  how  can  we  forget  ? 
We  chose  for  Alice,  and  unawares 
Rushed  with  her  into  a  rich  man's  snares, 
Who  tangled  us  up  in  his  loose  affairs, 

And  dragged  us  down  with  debt." 

"  Well,  well !  "  —  with  a  heavy  sigh  —  "  Let 's  go  I 
I  have  n't  been  always  wise.     Ah,  Jane  ! 

Some  things  might  not  be  done  just  so, 
If  they  were  to  do  again. 

But  Alice  is  dead  and  the  farm  is  gone ; 

Our  hopes,  and  all  that  we  built  them  on, 

Friends,  wealth,  are  scattered  hither  and  yon, 
And  only  ourselves  remain. 


AFTER  THE  SALE  297 


"  These  boughs  will  blossom  and  fruits  will  fall 

The  same !     When  I  changed  the  orchard  lot, 
And  fenced  it  all  with  good  stone  wall, 

And  planned  the  garden  plot, 
And  built  the  arbor  and  planted  trees, 
And  made  a  home  for  our  pride  and  ease, 
We  little  thought  these  were  all  to  please 
Strangers  who  knew  us  not ! 

"  Others  will  reap  where  we  have  sown ; 

But  others  never  can  understand 
What  watchful  care  these  fields  have  known, 

Or  how  I  loved  the  land. 
Here  maids  will  marry  and  babes  be  born, 
The  sun  will  shine  on  the  wheat  and  corn, 
Crops  be  gathered  and  sheep  be  shorn, 

But  by  a  stranger's  hand. 

"  Come,  wife !  "     With  bitterest  vain  regret, 

Remembering  all  good  things  that  were, 
The  old  man  yet  can  half  forget 

His  woes,  in  pity  of  her. 
She  entered,  a  young  man's  happy  bride, 
She  crowned  his  home  with  hope  and  pride, 
And  now  goes  forth  by  an  old  man's  side, 
A  weary  wanderer. 

With  slow,  disconsolate,  broken  talk, 

They  look  their  last  and  pass  the  gate  ; 

The  wagon  is  gone  and  they  must  walk ; 
A  mile,  and  it 's  growing  late. 

She  bears  a  parcel,  he  lifts  a  pack. 

But  what  do  they  see  there,  up  the  track, 

Against  the  sunset,  looming  black  ? 

'T  is  strange  !  the  wagon  is  coming  back 
With  its  melancholy  freight ! 

And  what  is  the  driver  shrieking  out  ? 

Now  Heaven  for  a  moment  keep  them  sane ! 


298  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  Turn  about !  turn  about !  "  they  hear  him  shout, 

As  he  flourishes  whip  and  rein  — 
"  You  've  a  home  and  a  good  friend  yet,  you  '11  find !  " 
A  coach  is  following  close  behind  ; 
A  face  —  a  voice  —  Oh,  Heaven  be  kind ! 
Oh,  lips  that  tremble  and  tears  that  blind ! 
Oh,  breaking  hearts,  it 's  Jane ! 

THREE  WORLDS 


IN  youth  the  world,  a  newly  blown 

Prismatic  bubble, 
Shows  the  enchanted  soul  her  own 

Enchanting  double. 

The  light  and  dew  of  heavenly  dreams 
Filled  my  young  vision, 

And  life  rose  clothed  in  orient  beams, 
Bright  apparition ! 

Then  love  in  each  fair  bosom  beat, 

A  pure  emotion ; 
And  friendship  was  a  long  and  sweet 

Ideal  devotion. 

Woman  was  truth  ;  and  age  was  then 

Holy  as  hoary. 
Strangely  about  the  brows  of  men 

There  shone  a  glory, 

A  radiance  shed  by  my  rapt  sight 

And  reverent  spirit ; 
How  changed  the  life,  how  paled  the  light, 

As  I  drew  near  it ! 

'T  was  my  own  ardent  youth  (alas, 

How  unsuspected !  ) 
Whose  image  in  the  bubble's  glass 

I  saw  reflected. 


THREE   WORLDS  299 


0  magic  youth,  that  could  suffuse 

The  bright  creation 

With  its  own  dreams  and  rainbow  hues 
Of  aspiration ! 

II 

The  wondrous  years  no  more  were  mine, 
When  fervent  Fancy 

Remade  the  world  by  her  divine, 
Sweet  necromancy. 

But  still,  as  paled  that  earlier  flame, 
My  zeal  grew  warmer 

To  serve  my  kind ;  and  I  became 
A  world-reformer. 

For  every  problem  then  I  saw 

Some  new  solution, 
Could  I  remodel  human  law 

And  institution ! 

To  wed  in  work  the  heart  and  mind, 

Make  life  a  mission 
Of  wise  good-will  to  all  mankind, 

Was  my  ambition. 

Bondage  and  ignorance  should  cease  ; 

Reason  and  culture 
Should  banish  war,  the  dove  of  peace 

Succeed  the  vulture. 

But  patiently  as  I  reshaped 
The  old  equation, 

1  found  some  factor  still  escaped 

My  calculation. 

No  philosophic  scheme,  nor  act 

Of  legislature, 
Can  yoke  the  storm  and  cataract 

Of  human  nature. 


300  THE   LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

The  moral  crusade  may  proceed 
By  means  immoral ; 

And  too  much  zeal  for  peace  may  lead 
To  many  a  quarrel. 

A  thankless  task  has  he  who  tries 

To  chip  and  model 
The  world  to  just  the  form  and  size 

Of  his  own  noddle. 

Is  it  because  of  hopes  long  tossed 
Or  heart  grown  harder  ? 

Now  I  have  also  something  lost 
Of  that  last  ardor. 

No  dungeon  door  will  cease  to  creak, 
Nor  chain  be  broken, 

For  any  word  I  hoped  to  speak, 
But  leave  unspoken. 

My  noon  is  past,  as  many  things, 

Alas,  remind  me ! 
Slowly  about  my  shadow  swings, 

Lengthening  behind  me. 

The  unaccomplished  task  laid  down 

I  leave  to  others  ; 
The  voice,  the  victory,  and  the  crown, 

To  you,  my  brothers ! 

Not  doubting,  though  my  lips  be  dumb, 
But  trusting  wholly 

In  that  fair  time  which  yet  shall  come,  — 
Shall  come,  though  slowly. 

Not  in  our  hurrying  years,  but  late, 
Through  generations, 

The  race  shall  rise  which  I  await 
With  perfect  patience. 


THREE   WORLDS  301 


Youth's  brave  illusion,  manhood's  hope, 

Vision  of  sages, 
Are  augury  and  horoscope 

Of  future  ages. 

A  harp-like  sound  is  in  my  ear, 

A  far-off  humming : 
I  see  the  golden  cloud,  I  hear 

The  chariots  coming ! 

Ill 

Nearer  and  sweeter  than  I  thought, 
One  world  has  waited, 

Though  not  the  world  my  fancy  wrought, 
Or  hope  created : 

A  world  of  common  light  and  air, 

Of  earth  and  azure  ; 
Of  love  girt  round  by  fear,  and  care 

Dearer  than  pleasure ; 

Of  simple  wants  and  few,  good-will 
To  friend  and  neighbor  ; 

And  each  day's  cup  each  day  must  fill 
With  thought  and  labor ; 

Furtherance  and  help,  with  ample  scope 
For  tears  and  laughter ; 

Of  child-like  faith,  and  earnest  hope, 
In  the  hereafter ; 

Patience  in  pain  ;  in  every  ill, 

Cross,  and  privation, 
If  not  contentment,  patience  still, 

And  resignation. 

My  brother's  wrong  I  may  not  right, 

But  I  can  share  it ; 
My  own  I  '11  study  less  to  fight, 

And  more  to  bear  it. 


302  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  nettle-sting  of  others'  deeds 
I  '11  strive  to  pardon, 

And  look  to  find  the  lurking  weeds 
In  my  own  garden. 

I  '11  till  my  little  plot  of  ground, 

And  pay  my  taxes, 
And  let  the  headlong  globe  go  round 

Upon  its  axis. 

Aspire  who  may  to  seize  the  helm 
And  guide  creation, 

If  I  can  rule  my  little  realm 
With  moderation,  — 

My  own  small  kingdom,  act  and  thought 
And  chaste  affection, 

Trained  powers,  and  passions  duly  brought 
Into  subjection, 

The  world  of  home,  of  wife  and  child,  — 

Good-by,  ambition ! 
I  '11  live  serenely  reconciled 

To  my  condition. 

With  years  a  richer  life  begins, 

The  spirit  mellows : 
Ripe  age  gives  tone  to  violins, 

Wine,  and  good  fellows. 

I  '11  marry  action  to  repose, 

Busily  idle, 
As  through  great  scenes  a  traveller  goes 

With  slackened  bridle. 

To  loftier  aims  let  me  aspire, 

To  higher  beauty ; 
Freedom  to  follow  my  desire 

Be  one  with  duty. 


THE  SEEKING  303 


About  our  common  mother  earth 

Flow  seas  of  ether ; 
Heaven  holds  her  in  her  starry  girth, 

The  clouds  enwreath  her. 

Forever  mystery,  love,  the  soul's 

Boundless  ideal, 
Like  a  diviner  ether  rolls 

About  the  real. 

And  second  youth  can  still  suffuse 

The  bright  creation 
With  its  own  dreams  and  rainbow  hues 

Of  aspiration. 


THE  SEEKING 

I 

BY  ways  of  dreaming  and  doing, 
Man  seeks  the  bourn  of  the  blest ; 

Youth  yearns  for  the  Fortunate  Islands, 
Age  pines  for  the  haven  of  rest. 

And  we  say  to  ourselves,  "  Oh !  surely, 

Beneath  some  bluer  skies, 
Just  over  our  bleak  horizon, 

The  land  of  our  longing  lies." 

Each  seeks  some  favored  pathway, 

Secure  to  him  alone  ; 
But  every  pathway  thither 

With  broken  hearts  is  strown. 

II 

The  Giver  of  Sleep  breathed  also, 

Into  our  clay,  the  breath 
And  fire  of  unrest,  to  save  us 

From  indolent  life  in  death. 


304  THE  LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

Fair  is  the  opening  rosebud, 
And  fair  the  full-blown  rose ; 

And  sweet,  after  rest,  is  action, 
And,  after  action,  repose. 

But  indolence,  like  the  cow-bird, 
That 's  hatched  in  an  alien  nest, 

Crowds  out  the  native  virtues, 
And  soon  usurps  the  breast. 

Better  the  endless  endeavor, 
The  strong  deed  rushing  on, 

And  Happiness  that,  ere  we  know  her 
And  name  her,  smiles  and  is  gone ! 

Ill 

We  wait  for  the  welling  of  waters 
That  never  pass  the  brink ; 

We  pour  our  lives  in  the  fountain, 
But  cannot  stay  to  drink. 

"  To-morrow,"  says  Youthful  Ardor, 
Twining  the  vine  and  the  rose, 

"  I  will  couch  in  these  braided  bowers, 
As  blithe  as  the  breeze  that  blows." 

"  To-morrow,"  says  earnest  Manhood, 

Yet  adding  land  to  land, 
"  I  will  walk  in  the  alleys  of  leisure, 

And  rest  from  the  work  of  my  hand." 

"  To-morrow,"  says  Age,  still  training 

The  vine  to  the  trembling  wall, 
Till  the  Dark  sweeps  down  upon  us, 
And  the  Shadow  that  swallows  all. 

IV 

Ebb-tide  chased  by  the  flood-tide, 
Night  by  the  dawn  pursued, 

And  ever  contentment  hounded 
By  fresh  inquietude ! 


HYMN  OF  THE  AIR  305 

Not  what  we  have  done  avails  us, 

But  what  we  do  and  are ; 
We  turn  from  the  deed  that  is  setting, 

And  steer  for  the  rising  star. 

We  may  wreck  our  hearts  in  the  voyage ; 

But  never  shall  sail  or  oar, 
Nor  wind  of  enchantment,  waft  us 

Nearer  the  longed-for  shore. 

In  vain  each  past  attainment ; 

No  sooner  the  port  appears 
Than  the  spirit,  ever  aspiring, 

Spreads  sail  for  untried  spheres. 

Whatever  region  entices, 

Whatever  siren  sings, 
Still  onward  beckons  the  phantom 

Of  unaccomplished  things. 


HYMN  OF  THE   AIR 

NOURISHES  and  encloser  of  all  life 

Am  I.     Before  man  was,  or  beast,  or  tree, 

I  in  my  winged  chariot  moved  upon 

The  desolate,  weltering  waste  that  was  the  world, 

And  bade  it  fructify.     And  life  appeared ; 

Innumerable  transitory  forms 

Limned  and  erased  in  each  successive  age, 

Their  early  outlines  lost,  or  later  known 

Traced  in  the  rocky  tablets  of  the  globe. 

Strange,  wingless  birds  that  tracked  the  baking  sands ; 

Ophidian  and  amphibian,  and  the  huge 

Iguanodon,  and  mighty  beasts  that  tore 

Tall  forests,  pasturing  on  their  succulent  boughs ; 

These  and  their  kind,  emerging  from  the  dim, 

Slow-wakening,  solitary,  uncouth  orb, 

Stalked  forth,  —  rude  types  of  creatures  yet  to  be  ;  — 

Rock-gnawing  lichens  that  forerun  the  feet 


306  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Of  violets  ;  fungi  watery  and  gross  ; 
Mosses  that  build  and  belt  the  corpulent  bog ; 
And  tree-like  ferns  enormous  from  the  moist 
And  steaming  earth  towered  densely ;  them  I  fed 
On  carbon  from  my  over-brimming  cup, 
Storing  it  in  their  veins  for  future  man. 

Nourisher  and  encloser  of  all  life  : 

All  things  that  creep  or  fly,  and  they  that  dwell 

Within  the  dim  inhabitable  deep, 

And  herb  and  shrub,  and  all  fair  waving  forms 

Of  verdure,  but  for  my  sustaining  might, 

My  presence  and  sustaining  might  withdrawn, 

Would  fail  in  universal  void  :  breath,  flame, 

And  sense,  and  strength  of  foot,  and  power  of  flight. 

The  condor,  circling  high  above  his  crags, 

Circling  securely  in  my  azure  realm, 

Earthward  with  all  his  plumes  would  drop  like  lead. 

And  sound  would  cease,  with  voice  of  bird  and  beast ; 

The  cataract  in  its  plunge  would  make  no  noise ; 

The  tumbling  billow  on  the  foamless  beach 

Would  lapse  in  silence ;  even  the  waves  would  sink, 

And  all  the  bright  seas  to  a  ghastly  film 

Subside  and  shrivel,  heaved  by  ghosts  of  tides. 

Nor  cloud  would  be,  nor  ever  morning  red, 

Nor  rains,  nor  rivers,  nor  the  blessed  dew. 

About  the  seas  I  flow,  an  ampler  sea, 

Diaphanous  and  shoreless  ;  earth  my  floor, 

The  mountain-chains  my  reefs  ;  my  surface  waves, 

Ethereal,  tumbling  high  beneath  the  stars, 

More  silvery  soft  than  aught  but  light  itself, 

And  beautiful,  could  finite  eyes  behold, 

But  only  spirits  behold,  whose  radiant  forms 

Bathe  in  my  almost  spiritual  flood. 

Stupendous  tides,  to  whose  huge  volume  those 

That  ridge  the  broad-backed  sea  with  sweeping  swells 

Are  but  as  ripples,  roll  beneath  the  moon 

Eternally,  unchafed  by  any  strand, 

In  unimaginable  loneliness,. 


HYMN  OF  THE  AIR  307 

And  silence  broken  by  no  sound  save  where 
With  fiery  plash  the  raining  meteors  fall. 

Far  down,  curved  duly  with  the  curving  sphere, 

The  white  clouds  curdle,-  pierced  by  quiet  crags ; 

With  rifts  that  show  the  large  plan  of  the  world, 

Oceans  and  continents  and  ice-capped  poles, 

Rivers  and  towns  and  crawling  beasts  and  men. 

Forever,  high  above  those  realms  of  change, 

I  take  the  sunshine  on  my  crest,  and  bare 

My  pure,  cold  bosom  to  the  moon  and  stars ; 

While  at  my  feet  the  pictured  seasons  pass 

In  beauty,  or  amidst  battling  elements, 

When  clouds  charge  clouds  and  lightnings  cross  their  swords, 

And  my  wild  skirts  are  fringed  with  flying  storms. 

I  am  the  fountain  of  all  winds  that  blow  ; 
Parent  of  zephyrs  and  flower-scented  gales, 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  lovers  when  they  kiss 
Under  vine-shadows  on  soft  summer  eves. 

Ministers  of  a  vast  beneficence, 

Forever  on  fleet  errands  to  and  fro 

My  breezes  fly ;  beneath  their  glancing  wings 

Making  the  glad  waves  leap  and  clap  their  hands ; 

Wafting  through  sun  and  shadow  round  the  curve 

Innumerable  fleets  ;  fanning  parched  climes, 

And  purifying  over-peopled  towns  ; 

Bearing  in  airy  urns  to  thirsty  lands 

The  copious  exhalations  of  the  sea, 

To  frozen  realms  the  heat  of  torrid  suns. 

Yet  trust  me  not,  for  I  am  changeable  : 
Oh  !  trust  me  not,  for  in  my  glassiest  calms 
Terror  and  fury  couch,  and  tempest  breeds. 
My  blue-roofed  cavern  is  the  nursing-place 
Of  rains  and  snows  and  hurricanes,  the  lair 
Of  young  tornadoes  and  the  whirlwind's  whelps. 

I  am  invisible,  yet  terrible. 

All  moods  are  mine.     The  fleets  I  waft,  I  smite. 


308  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

In  their  mad  whirling  dance  my  dread  cyclones, 
Turbaned  with  thunder-clouds,  in  roaring  robes 
Gathering  the  uptorn  seas  and  desert  sands, 
Darken  and  devastate  the  affrighted  globe. 

Eternal  battlefield  of  cold  and  heat ; 
Forever-swaying  balance,  reservoir 
Of  indestructible  tumultuous  force ; 
Wafter  of  ships  ;  mother  of  fierce  monsoons  ; 
Dispenser  of  the  heavenly  rain  and  dew  ; 
Purger  of  lands,  physician  of  sick  climes  ; 
Floating  in  peace  the  rosy  evening  cloud, 
Or  curled  white  cirrus  of  midsummer  noons ; 
Gentle  or  stern,  in  calm  or  tempest,  I 
Fulfil  my  manifold  appointed  use. 

In  my  divine  alembic  I  transmute 
Death  and  the  poisonous  vapors  of  the  world 
Into  fresh  life  and  beauty.     Tribes  of  men, 
Interminable  processions,  insect,  brute, 
The  multitudinous  tranquil  race  of  plants, 
All  things  that  perish,  in  my  chemic  glass 
Distil  and  change,  exhale  and  disappear  ; 
The  beauteous  flower,  and  she  more  beautiful 
Who  lifts  it  from  the  stalk  with  loving  hand  ; 
Tyrants  and  slaves,  the  eagle  and  the  gnat, 
Leviathan  and  python,  lion  and  lamb : 
I  waste  and  mingle,  I  diffuse  and  blow 
About  the  world  their  wandering  elements, 
To  pour  them  forth  anew  in  living  forms. 

Enfolder  and  disposer  of  all  life 

Am  I :  and  yet  not  I.     Oh  !  faithless  man, 

How  canst  thou  feel  my  power  and  mystery, 

And  know  the  invisible  force  that  clasps  thee  round, 

And  have  in  me  thy  being,  and  yet  doubt 

The  Spirit  whose  similitude  I  am, 

The  Power  that  framed  the  world,  and  me,  and  thee  ? 


THE  POET  309 


THE  POET 

A  YOUTH  there  was,  and  his  dwelling  amid  great  wonders  stood ; 
There  laughed  the  verdurous  valley,  there  gloomed  the  serious  wood ; 
And  round  about  were  the  voices  of  winds  and  of  rushing  streams ; 
And  his  days  were  drugged  with  illusions,  his  nights  were  drunken  with 
dreams. 

The  years  flew  by,  like  the  wild  fowl,  one  by  one,  over  the  glen, 

Till  a  man  he  was  grown,  gazed  after  by  men  and  the  daughters  of 

men; 
A  bard   in   the   midst  of  a  people   that  trafficked   and   schemed   and 

wrought, 
They  red  with  the  sunlight  of  action,  he  pale  with  the  moonlight  of 

thought. 

And  many  looked  after  and  loved  him,  but  wayward  and  rapt  went  he  ; 
And  blessed  were  his  days,  but  ever  he  longed  for  better  to  be ; 
And  fair  and  sweet  were  the  maidens,  but  only  the  face  of  the  gray, 
Thin  wraith,  the  bodiless  moonshine,  beside  his  pillow  lay. 

The  strings  of  his  lute  never  trembled  to  human  joys  and  woes, 
But  told  of  the  clouds  and  the  flowers,  and  the  love  that  no  man  knows  : 
He  turned  his  song,  as  a  Claude-glass,  to  image  the  shapes  and  gleams 
That  float  in  the  Limbus  of  fancy,  that  drift  in  the  Hades  of  dreams. 

But  once  and  again  to  his  bedside  a  Vision  of  visions  had  come, 
When  the  world  was  mantled  in  darkness,  and  all  its  voices  were  dumb, 
Save  only,  afar  in  the  forest,  a  moan  and  a  glimmer  of  locks, 
Where  the  lost  brook  wailed  as  it  wandered,  and  beat  its  white  breast  on 
the  rocks. 

Then  the  chill  dim  space  of  his  chamber  unfolded  and  bloomed  as  a 

flower, 

Filling  with  glory  and  fragrance  the  lonely  and  desolate  hour  ; 
Over  his  closed  cold  eyelids  a  breath  moved,  vital  and  warm, 
And  a  soul  came  out  of  the  fragrance,  and  out  of  the  glory  a  form. 

And  in  the  still  air  of  the  heaven  they  made  all  around  and  above 
Were  eyes  of  ravishing  brightness,  a  face  of  ineffable  love ; 


310  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

From  a  forehead  of  snow  flamed  backward  the  hair's  soft  golden  fire  ; 
And  a  voice,  or  the  soul  of  a  voice,  said,  "  I  am  your  heart's  desire. 

"  Into  life  by  the  love  of  the  sculptor  a  marble  maiden  was  warmed ; 
And  out  of  your  wish  I  was  fashioned,  and  out  of  your  faith  I  was 

formed. 

The  word  I  utter  is  only  a  pearl  of  your  innermost  thought ; 
My  wisdom,  the  deep-hidden  treasure  that  up  from  your  breast  I  have 

brought. 

I  am  twin-born  of  your  being  :  to  every  mortal  is  given 

His   angel,  unseen,  bending   near  him,   as   Earth   is   leaned   over   by 

Heaven ; 

Both  one,  as  the  stem  and  the  flower  of  the  water-lily  are  one, 
Below  in  the  ooze  and  the  shimmer,  above  in  the  azure  and  sun. 

"  I  dwell  in  the  life  of  the  spirit,  yet  ever  am  close  at  your  side ; 
And  I  say  to  you,  out  of  the  stillness  of  light  wherein  I  abide,  — 
O  man  !  in  the  midst  of  illusions,  be  ever  alert  to  hear 
The  lisp  of  your  Psyche,  the  whisper  that  breathes  in  the  ear  of  your 
ear. 

"  O  poet !  with  doubt  and  denial  vex  not  your  mind  overmuch : 
They  dull  the  delicate  forces,  the  chords  that  respond  to  my  touch. 
The  bounds  of  your  metaphysics  enclose  but  a  sterile  clod : 
Waste  not  your  thought  upon  thinking,  nor  dogmatize  about  God. 

"  And  dwell  no  longer  in  dreamland,  the  realm  of  fable  and  fay ; 
Await  not  the  feast  of  To-morrow,  but  break  the  bread  of  To-day. 
Pine  not  for  the  nymph  Perfection,  nor  follow  the  glance  of  Pride ; 
But  beckon  the  helpful  maiden,  call  Comfort  to  your  side. 

"  Embody  your  pale  ideals,  and  give  to  the  dreams  of  youth, 

With  the  form  of  art,  which  is  beauty,  the  soul  of  art,  which  is  truth. 

And  still,  in  the  midst  of  illusions,  be  ever  alert  to  hear 

The  word  of  your  Psyche,  the  whisper  that  breathes  in  the  ear  of  your 


"  The  angels  are  still  descending  that  to  the  patriarch  came ; 
Just  over  each  upturned  forehead  plays  the  celestial  flame. 


THE  POET  311 


Above  your  doubts  and  repinings,  the  heavens  are  opened  wide 
To  flood  your  life  with  the  fulness  of  light  wherein  I  abide. 

"  Within  the  trembling  dewdrop,  that  toward  the  morning  turns. 
The  world  in  little  is  mirrored,  a  whole  creation  burns ; 
And  every  heart  that  is  lifted,  and  every  soul  that  aspires, 
Is  a  spark  of  the  Infinite  Spirit,  a  focus  of  heavenly  fires." 

The  vision  departed,  and  over  the  world's  dim  boundary  rolled 
The  shining  billow  of  daybreak,  the  surges  of  crimson  and  gold. 
The  wheels  of  traffic  resounded,  the  blows  of  the  builders  rang, 
Sweet  maidens  smiled  in  the  doorways,  and  children  shouted  and  sang. 

The  cry  of  the  sibilant  saw-mill  rose  vehement  and  loud, 
The  white  mill-waters  curdled,  and  fell  like  a  falling  cloud ; 
While  afar  on  the  misty  lowland  went  flying  the  iron  steed, 
White-plumed,  a  phantom  of  beauty,  swift-wheeled,  a  marvel  of  speed ! 

The  Poet  went  forth,  beholding  the  earth  created  new ; 

He  bathed  his  brow  in  its  freshness,  he  washed  his  heart  in  its  dew ; 

He  heard  the  chorus  of  farm-yards,  the  jubilee  of  the  birds, 

The  far-away  tinkle,  the  lowing  of  pasture-going  herds. 

He  saw  the  lake  all  a-shiver  with  pictures  of  shores  and  trees, 
Soft  etchings  of  cloud  and  shadow,  the  mezzotint  of  the  breeze ; 
And  thinly  ascending  and  curling,  in  clefts  of  the  dark-green  hills, 
The  smokes  of  embowered  dwellings,  like  upward-winding  rills. 

He  heard  blithe  sounds  of  labor  blend  with  the  brooks  that  ran, 
The  mighty  rhythm  of  nature  rhyme  in  the  works  of  man ; 
And  whether  he  roamed  the  woodland,  or  traversed  the  busy  street, 
He  moved  in  a  world  of  wonders,  with  miracles  at  his  feet. 

And  he  vowed,  "  I  will  rend  as  a  garment  the  dream  I  have  dreamed  so 

long, 

Put  living  men  in  my  measures,  this  light  and  this  land  in  my  song ; 
For  never  was  fabled  country  so  fair  as  this  I  behold : 
I  dwell  in  a  realm  of  enchantment,  I  live  in  an  age  of  gold !  " 


312  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

AT  MOUNT   DESERT1 
BAB  HARBOR 
I 

PANOPLIED  with  crags  and  trees, 

And  begirt 
By  blue  islands  in  soft  seas, 

Which  invert 

Idle  yachts  on  glassy  days,  — 
Who  shall  paint  your  purple  bays, 
Who  can  frame  you  in  a  phrase, 

Mount  Desert  ? 

Beetling  ledges  and  sublime 

Ocean  swells  ; 
Caverns  green  with  weeds  and  slime, 

Blue  with  shells ; 
Isle  of  rest  for  weary  lives, 
Woodland  walks  and  dusty  drives, 
Seaside  villas  and  big  hives 

Of  hotels. 

Rocks  where  dreamers  half  the  day 

Sit  inert ; 

Where  girls  gossip  and  crochet, 
Play  lawn-tennis,  and,  they  say, 

Sometimes  flirt ; 

1  In  this  rhyme  of  Mount  Desert  the  more  common  pronunciation  of  the  name  is 
adopted,  with  the  anomalous  accent  on  the  final  syllable,  which  appears  to  be  a  sur 
vival  from  the  French,  not  very  desirable ;  while  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  full 
significance  of  the  name  given  by  the  Voyageur  Champlain  to  these  "  Islands  of  the 
Desolate  Mountains  "  —  Isles  des  Monts  Deserts  —  could  not  have  been  preserved. 

The  bird  which  flits  through  the  ninth  stanza  is  the  black  guillemot,  a  Northern 
waterfowl,  bearing  sufficient  resemblance  to  a  pigeon  to  suggest  its  local  name ;  its 
nearly  black  plumage  has  a  greenish  tinge,  with  a  conspicuous  white  spot  on  the 
wing.  Its  soft,  plaintive  whistle  faintly  suggests  the  note  of  the  wood  pewee.  It 
frequents  in  great  numbers  some  of  the  islands  and  crags  of  the  far  coast  of  Maine, 
where  it  breeds. 

The  harebell  is  scattered  profusely  almost  everywhere  along  the  cliffs ;  its  clusters 
are  especially  abundant  and  beautiful  about  Sol's  Cliff,  a  ruggedly  picturesque  crag 
not  far  from  Bar  Harbor. 


AT  MOUNT  DESERT  313 

Place  to  read,  or  sketch,  or  row ; 
Town  of  hops  and  shops  and  show : 
By  these  tokens  tourists  know 
Mount  Desert. 

Every  morning  sees  a  mile, 

Less  or  more, 
Of  strange  vehicles  defile 

By  your  door : 

Choose  one,  mount,  and  bowl  along 
On  a  buckboard  light  and  strong, 
Lilting,  tilting  on  its  long 

Limber  floor. 

Or  the  dismal  fog  shuts  down, 

Chill  and  gray ; 
Over  harbor,  coast  and  town, 
Dismal,  drizzling,  it  sweeps  down, 

Day  by  day, 
In  interminable  drifts, 
Till  some  morning,  lo,  it  lifts ! 
And  again  through  ragged  rifts 

Gleams  the  bay. 

Sheeny  vapors  ride  the  air 

And  the  sea, 

Touching,  trailing,  here  and  there, 
Till  each  mountain  seems  to  wear 

A  toupee ; 

Or  a  scimiter  of  lace 
Shears  a  headland  from  its  base, 
And  leaves  hanging  there  in  space 

Rock  and  tree. 

II 

Quit  the  world  of  news  and  dress, 

Cards  and  calls ! 
To  the  vaulted  wilderness, 

Which  inwalls 


314  THE  LOST  EAEL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Mossy  chasms  and  tangled  nooks  ! 
Where  the  fleeing  wood-nymph  looks 
From  the  veils  of  flashing  brooks 
And  swift  falls. 

Loose  your  snowy-pinioned  skiff, 

Launch  in  space ! 
Or  explore  with  me  this  cliff, 

From  its  face, 

Which  the  wind  and  surges  fret, 
Past  the  plumed  parapet, 
Where  no  touch  of  man  has  yet 

Left  a  trace. 

As  you  scale  the  splintered  jag 

Toward  the  sky, — 
As  you  pass  the  jutting  jag, 
The  sea-pigeons  on  the  crag 

Downward  fly ; 

From  the  swells  not  far  remote, 
Where  the  pied  flock  sits  afloat, 
Comes  their  softly  whistled  note, 

Like  a  sigh. 

Slim  against  the  f ringy  line 

Of  the  firs, 

The  outleaning  birches  shine  ; 
There  the  tresses  of  the  pine ; 

The  wind  stirs 
The  green-tufted  tamarack ; 
And  the  cedars,  bristling  black, 
In  the  mountain's  craggy  back 

Strike  their  spurs. 

You  may  search  the  woods  in  vain, 

Everywhere, 
For  the  lonely  thrush,  whose  strain 

FiUs  the  air. 

Here  the  shy  bunchberries  house, 
Where  blue-tinted  balsam  boughs 
Weave  a  covert  for  the  grouse 

And  the  hare. 


AT   MOUNT   DESERT  315 

III 
The  white-throated  sparrow  sings 

In  the  trees. 

Tint  of  mosses,  glint  of  wings, 
Oh,  the  thousand  lovely  things 

That  one  sees ! 

Loveliest,  frailest,  of  them  all 
Are  these  wild  flowers,  blue  and  small, 
Wavering  on  the  bleak  sea-wall 

In  the  breeze. 

Find  a  foothold  in  the  ledge, 

There  they  spring ; 
On  its  utmost  dizzy  edge, 

There  they  cling ; 

Where  there  's  room  for  tuft  to  grow 
In  the  crevices  below, 
While  waves  dash  and  tempests  blow, 

There  they  swing ! 

Little  Ariels  that  perform 

Their  pure  part 
In  rude  scenes  of  strife  and  storm, 

They  upstart 

From  gray  cleft  and  scanty  mould. 
So  late  flowers  of  love  unfold, 
Sweet  relentings,  in  some  old, 

Bugged  heart. 

Region  where  the  harebell  blows, 

Wave-begirt ! 
Let  the  season's  round  of  shows, 

Which  divert 

Careless  eyes  in  yonder  town, 
Justify  your  fair  renown  ; 
But  these  flowers  shall  be  your  crown, 

Mount  Desert ! 

By  what  magic,  out  of  air, 

Do  they  spin,  — 
Out  of  sunlight,  dew,  and  air, 


316  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  slight  bonnets  that  they  wear, 

Blue  and  thin  ? 
Children  of  the  rock  and  sky ! 
Little  people,  you  and  I 
Surely  by  some  mystic  tie 

Are  akin* 

Huddled  here  in  pleasant  flocks 

On  the  verge, 

Nodding  hoods  and  fluttering  locks, 
Half-way  down  the  rifted  rocks 

That  emerge 

From  the  billows  tumbling  white, 
Do  you  feel  a  fine  delight 
In  the  breezes  and  the  bright 

Bursting  surge  ? 

Larger  cousins  of  these  meek, 

Tiny  elves ! 

Belles  of  Mount  Desert,  who  seek 
Your  sweet  namesakes  on  the  bleak 

Crannied  shelves ; 
Following  far  the  lovely  lures,  — 
Dainty  relatives  of  yours, 
Little  charming  miniatures 

Of  yourselves !  — 

Cull  them  here  betwixt  the  brink 

And  the  foam ! 
Choose  a  cluster  by  the  brink, 
Lift  them  gently  from  their  chink, 

Bear  them  home,  — 
Every  flower  a  fairy  vase 
Brimmed  with  light  of  breezy  bays 
In  each  bell  the  summer  day's 

Azure  dome ! 

To  the  city's  footworn  flags 

They  will  bring 
Winds  and  voices  of  these  crags, 

Where  they  cling, 


THE  BELL-BUOY  AT  MOUNT  DESERT  317 

Leaping  surf  and  leaning  trees, 
Cool,  bright  hours  of  joyous  ease, 
And  green  islands  in  the  sea's 
Shining  ring. 


THE  BELL-BUOY  AT  MOUNT   DESERT 

SOUTHWEST  HARBOR 

I 

AT  the  gateway  of  the  bay, 

On  the  currents  that  come  and  go, 

The  bell-buoy  heaves  and  swings. 
Forever  seeming  to  say : 

"  Woe  !  woe !  "  to  the  mariner,  "  woe ! 
Beware  of  the  reefs  below !  " 
To  and  fro,  to  and  fro, 

The  bell-buoy  rocks  and  rings. 

In  calm  or  storm,  through  all 

The  changes  of  night  and  day, 

Blithe  sun  or  blinding  spray, 

With  the  wail  of  the  winds  that  blow, 
With  the  moan  of  the  ebb  and  flow, 
While  the  billows  swell  and  fall, 
Goes  forth  that  warning  call  — 

Night  and  day,  night  and  day, 
Peals  forth  the  mournful  knell 
Of  that  iron  sentinel, 
Of  the  wave-swung,  warning  bell, 

At  the  gateway  of  the  bay. 

Where  the  granite-snouted  ledges 
Lurk  in  their  pimpled  hides, 

Scraggy  with  whelks  and  bosses, 
And  shaggy  with  black  sea-mosses, 
Just  showing  the  tawny  edges 

Of  their  backs  in  the  burying  tides, 
Shouldering  off  the  foam ; 


318  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Where  they  lie  in  wait  to  gore 
With  their  terrible  tusks  the  sides 
Of  the  fair  ship  flying  home ; 

There  the  bowing  bell-buoy  rides, 
With  a  dull  reverberant  roar 
Evermore,  evermore 

Crying :  "  Woe !  "  to  the  mariner,  "  woe ! 
Beware  of  the  rocks  below ! 

Beware  of  the  treacherous  shore !  " 

II 

At  evening,  from  your  boat, 
You  may  see  the  sombre  bell 
In  its  black  and  massy  frame, 
Peered  through  by  the  sunset  flame ; 
A  solemn  silhouette, 
In  a  skeleton  turret,  set 
On  the  balanced  and  anchored  float, 
A-swing  with  the  crimson  swell. 

When  the  soft,  slumberous  haze 
Of  drowsy  midsummer  days 
Pours  around  inlets  and  bays 

A  glassy  ethereal  gleam ; 
And  over  far  isles  and  sails 
Drop  violet  veils  beyond  veils, 

Till  headland  and  cliff  but  seem 

The  unreal  shapes  of  a  dream  ; 
When  hardly  the  loon  and  gull, 
In  the  lap  of  the  languid  lull, 

Appear  to  waver  and  dip : 

Then  the  buoy  sways,  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  bell  tolls,  sad  and  low, 

Like  the  bell  of  a  sunken  ship, 
That  heaves  with  the  heaving  hull, 
Wave-rocked  on  the  reefs  below. 

At  times  to  the  dreamy  eye, 

In  the  glamour  of  glistening  weather 
That  girdles  the  sea  and  sky, 


THE  BELL-BUOY  AT  MOUNT  DESERT  319 

While  ocean  and  island  lie 

Like  a  lion  and  lamb  together : 
When  the  billow  that  bursts  its  sheaf 
Of  silver  over  the  reef 

Falls  light  and  white  as  a  feather, 
Curled  all  the  length  of  the  reef ; 
Then  the  bell,  like  a  darker  plume, 
Nods  over  the  downy  spume 

In  the  veiled  voluptuous  weather. 

At  times  so  gently  stirred, 

It  seems  like  a  waving  bough 
To  invite  the  wandering  bird. 
At  intervals  still  is  heard 

That  sullen  note  —  as  now !  — 
Clanging  its  mournful  and  lone 
Perpetual  monotone. 

Ill 

A  dismal,  dolorous  sound, 

You  would  say,  heard  anywhere, 

Be  the  weather  foul  or  fair ! 
Not  so  to  the  homeward-bound 
Late  crew  from  the  fishing-ground,  » 

Some  muffled  and  murky  night ; 
Or  the  steamer  heaving  her  lead 
And  groping  in  doubt  and  dread, 

Through  drizzle  and  fog,  by  the  light 
Of  her  lantern  eyes,  which  shed 
A  misty  glare  at  her  head  ; 

Reaching  out  quivering  rays, 

Antennae-like,  in  the  haze, 
To  find  her  dubious  way. 

To  the  pilot's  practised  ear 

In  such  dark  and  anxious  times, 
That  peal,  as  I  have  heard  say, 

Signaling,  sudden  and  clear, 

The  course  which  he  shall  steer, 

Is  a  cheerier  sound  to  hear 
Than  sweetest  belfry  chimes. 


320  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  when,  on  this  border-realm 
Of  created  things,  once  more 
The  powers  of  chaos  outpour 

Their  legions,  and  overwhelm 
With  darkness  and  dire  uproar, 
In  their  mad  foray,  this  fair 
Frontier  of  created  things  ; 

When  they  scatter  the  fishing-fleet 

And  stun  the  shore  with  the  beat 
And  buffet  of  billowy  wings, 

And  trample  of  thunderous  feet  — 

What  life,  out  there  in  the  surges, 
Flings  frantic  arms  in  air 

As  it  tosses  and  sinks  and  emerges  — 
Beckons  with  wild  despair, 

And  tongues  that  doleful  peal  ? 

Now  loud  in  the  leaping  surges, 
Now  stifled  with  wind  and  wave. 

No  simple  device  of  good 

Stout  metal  and  bolted  wood, 

But  surely  a  thing  that  can  feel, 
And  strong  in  its  struggle  to  save 
The  shoreward  driving  keel ! 

Boom  !  boom !  boom ! 

Out  of  the  horror  of  gloom 

A  sound  of  dolor  and  doom 

To  the  helmsman  at  the  wheel. 

IV 

The  seasons  come  and  go, 
And  still  in  storm  or  calm, 
On  the  ocean's  palpitant  palm, 

The  bell-buoy  rocks  and  rolls. 
The  summers  come  and  go, 
And,  mantled  in  whirling  snow, 
Ice-capped,  amid  foam  and  floe, 

The  bell-buoy  tumbles  and  tolls. 
To  and  fro,  loud  or  low, 
Ever  that  sound  of  fear  ! 
You  listen  and  seem  to  hear 


THE  CABIN  321 


A  voice,  as  of  some  wild  seer, 
A  cry  and  a  warning  to  souls 
Over  life's  treacherous  shoals. 


THE   CABIN 

READ  AT  THE    CLAFLIN    GARDEN    PARTY  GIVEN   TO  MRS.  H.  B.  STOWE,  IN 
CELEBRATION   OF   HER   SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY,  JUNE   14,  1882 

GENIUS,  't  is  said,  knows  not  itself, 

But  works  unconscious  wholly. 
Even  so  she  wrought,  who  built  in  thought 

The  Cabin  of  the  Lowly. 

A  wife  with  common  wifely  cares, 

What  mighty  dreams  enwrapt  her ! 
What  fancies  burned,  until  she  turned 

To  write  some  flaming  chapter ! 

Her  life  was  like  some  quiet  bridge, 

Impetuous  tides  sweep  under. 
So  week  by  week  the  story  grew, 

From  wonder  on  to  wonder. 

Wisdom  could  not  conceive  the  plot, 

Nor  wit  and  fancy  spin  it ; 
The  woman's  part,  the  wife's  deep  heart, 

All  mother's  love,  were  in  it. 

Hatred  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 

Compassion  sweet  and  holy, 
Sorrow  and  Guilt  and  Terror  built 

That  Cabin  of  the  Lowly. 

And  in  the  morning  light,  behold, 

By  some  divine  mutation, 
Its  roof  became  a  sky  of  flame, 

A  portent  to  the  nation ! 

The  Slave  went  forth  through  all  the  earth, 
He  preached  to  priest  and  rabbin ; 


322  THE   LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

He  spoke  all  tongues  ;  in  every  land 
Opened  that  lowly  Cabin. 

Anon  a  school  for  kinder  rule, 
For  freer  thoughts  and  manners  ; 

Then  from  its  door  what  armies  pour 
With  bayonets  and  banners  ! 

More  potent  still  than  fires  that  kill, 

Or  logic  that  convinces, 
The  tale  she  told  to  high  and  low, 

To  peasants  and  to  princes. 

That  tale  belongs  with  Freedom's  songs, 

The  hero's  high  endeavor, 
And  all  brave  deeds  that  serve  the  needs 

Of  Liberty  forever ! 

I  greet  her  now,  when  South  and  North 
Have  ceased  their  deadly  quarrels  ; 

And  say,  or  sing,  while  here  I  fling 
This  leaf  upon  her  laurels  :  — 

She  loosed  the  rivets  of  the  slave  ; 

She  likewise  lifted  woman, 
And  proved  her  right  to  share  with  man 

All  labors  pure  and  human. 

Women,  they  say,  must  yield,  obey, 
Rear  children,  dance  cotillions  : 

While  this  one  wrote,  she  cast  the  vote 
Of  unenfranchised  millions ! 


ODE 

BEAD   AT   THE    DEDICATION    OF    THE    SOLDIERS*    MONUMENT  AT   ARLING 
TON,  MASS.,  JUNE    17,  1887 

LIKE  Peace  itself,  as  calm  and  fair,  — 
White  flower  from  battle-furrows  grown, 
Its  beauty  blossomed  into  stone,  — 

Stands  this  still  shaft  in  this  June  air  ! 


ODE  323 

Long  may  the  heavens  upon  it  shed 

The  dews  of  eve,  the  beams  of  morn, 

And  light,  for  ages  yet  unborn, 
The  deeds  of  our  heroic  dead ! 

They  kept  their  country's  faith,  and  fought 

The  New  World's  promise  to  fulfil,  — 

To  hold,  and  leave  unbroken  still, 
The  ring  of  States  the  fathers  wrought. 

As  cheerfully  each  artisan, 

In  some  great  work,  performs  his  part, 

Though  knowing  not  the  Master's  art 
And  purpose,  in  the  perfect  plan  ;  — 

So  they,  alike  the  sires  and  sons, 

Toiled  at  one  pattern,  one  divine, 

Inscrutable,  and  vast  design, 
Which  through  a  nation's  fabric  runs. 

They  strove,  at  duty's  high  behest, 

For  liberty  and  equal  laws  ; 

And  in  so  striving  served  a  cause 
Whose  grander  scope  they  dimly  guessed. 

We  ask  not  of  their  birth,  nor  need 

The  story  of  their  years  be  sung ; 

Who  die  for  truth  are  always  young, 
And  dear  in  their  immortal  deed. 

Life  at  the  best  is  brief,  and  wrong 

Is  evermore  to  face  and  quell ; 

They  who  have  done  their  duty  well, 
They  only,  have  lived  well  and  long. 

Oh !  blessed  are  they  whose  troubled  days 

Are  nobly  rounded,  to  our  eyes, 

By  some  large  act  of  sacrifice, 
Beyond  all  earthly  blame  or  praise. 


324  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

No  more  shall  cold  detraction  come 
To  search  their  lives,  nor  fortune  fret ; 
The  book  is  closed,  and  on  it  set 

The  sacred  seal  of  martyrdom. 

Friends,  living  comrades,  gather  round ! 
And  wave,  ye  winds,  oh !  gently  wave 
The  flag  they  loved  and  died  to  save, 

Above  our  consecrated  ground. 

To  them  this  fair  memorial  stone 
We  raise,  to  be  henceforth  a  sign 
Of  patriot's  zeal,  and  Freedom's  shrine ; 

And  Fame  adopts  them  for  her  own. 


AFTER  THE   CONCERT 
JOSEF  HOFMANN,  PIANIST  AND  COMPOSER,  AGED  10 

THE  tempest  of  applause  he  met 

As  meekly  as  a  bending  bud ! 
A  boy  of  humble  birth,  and  yet 

A  prince  of  more  than  royal  blood. 

For  him  no  bauble  handed  down, 

No  sceptre  despot  ever  bore, 
But  Music's  heavenly  realm,  the  crown 

Which  youthful  Handel  won  and  wore ! 

How  laughed  the  Allegro's  gay  disdain, — 

What  rippling  pearly  melodies 
Showered  on  us  their  enchanted  rain,  — 

When  his  small  fingers  swept  the  keys ! 

They  leaped,  they  flew,  they  flashed  through  all 
The  jubilant  chords  ;  or  dropped,  in  play, 

As  carelessly  as  petals  fall 

From  cherry-boughs  in  breezy  May. 


AFTER  THE   CONCERT  325 

He  tossed  us  Schumann's  sparkling  airs ; 

Struck  Rubinstein's  sweet  storms  of  tone : 
We  followed,  up  the  starry  stairs, 

The  shining  feet  of  Mendelssohn. 

He  wove,  around  an  untried  theme, 

So  varied  and  so  blithe  a  strain, 
It  wrapt  us  in  a  radiant  dream 

Of  little  Wolfgang  come  again. 

The  very  roof  with  plaudits  shook ; 

And  still,  above  their  bursting  flood, 
The  thunder  and  the  gusts  he  took 

As  simply  as  a  swaying  bud. 

Ah,  could  he  know,  the  wondrous  boy ! 

When  he  had  vanished  from  our  gaze, 
What  tearful  yearnings  veiled  our  joy, 

What  prayers  were  mingled  with  our  praise ! 

We  longed  to  shield  him  from  the  gales 

Of  coming  time  ;  to  lay  his  head 
In  lulling  arms,  and  tell  him  tales, 

And  fold  him  in  his  quiet  bed. 

Waste  not  too  soon,  O  burning  star ! 

Your  bright  young  life ;  but  nurse  its  beam, 
That  it  may  rise  and  light  afar 

The  world's  unresting,  troubled  stream. 

Heaven  fend,  from  that  too  ardent  heart, 

The  griefs  of  great  and  gifted  men, 
The  sordid  miseries  of  Mozart, 

The  woes  of  mighty  Beethoven. 

Heir  to  a  throne  unstained  by  wrong, 

Possess  your  sphere,  unvexed  by  strife ; 
Conquer  new  realms,  rule  well  and  long, 

Nor  lose  the  deeper  things  of  life. 


326  THE   LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

The  unsullied  ray  that  guides  the  soul 
Is  more  than  glory's  blinding  flame ; 
And  helpful  manhood,  sound  and  whole, 

Than  all  the  works  of  art  and  fame. 
January,  1888. 


QUATRAINS  AND   EPIGRAMS 

ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

HEROIC  soul,  in  homely  garb  half  hid, 
Sincere,  sagacious,  melancholy,  quaint, 

What  he  endured,  no  less  than  what  he  did, 

Has  reared  his  monument  and  crowned  him  saint. 

TEMPTATION 

How  sweet,  till  past,  then  hideous  evermore ! 

Like  that  false  fay  the  legend  tells  us  of, 
That  seemed  a  lovely  woman,  viewed  before, 

But,  from  behind,  all  hollow,  like  a  trough. 

PHAETON 

HOT  youth,  in  haste  your  high  career  to  run, 
Heed  the  wise  counsel  Phoebus  gave  his  son, 
And  spare  the  whip !  brace  the  firm  reins  with  nerve, 
Nor  ever  from  the  middle  pathway  swerve. 

MATERIALIST 

HE  took  a  tawny  handful  from  the  strand : 
"  What  we  can  grasp,"  he  said,  "  we  understand, 
And  nothing  more  :  "  when,  lo  !  the  laughing  sand 
Slid  swiftly  from  his  vainly  clutching  hand. 

IDEALIST 

THE  World  is  but  a  frozen  kind  of  gas, 
A  transient  ice  we  sport  on,  where,  alas ! 
Diverted  by  the  pictures  in  the  glass, 
We  heed  not  the  Realities  that  pass. 


QUATRAINS  AND  EPIGRAMS  327 


SENSUALIST 


"  LIVE  while  we  live  !  "  he  cried  ;  but  did  not  guess, 
Fooled  by  the  phantom,  Pleasure,  how  much  less 
Enjoyment  runs  in  rivers  of  excess 
Than  overbrims  divine  abstemiousness. 

YEARS   AND   ART 

YOUTH  strikes  a  skill-less  blow,  but  the  metal  is  all  aglow ; 
Age  has  the  experienced  hand,  but  the  fire  in  the  forge  is  low. 

HOW   CAN   I   WELCOME   AGE? 

How  can  I  welcome  age,  or  behold  without  dismay 
The  beautiful  days  go  by  and  the  great  years  glide  away  ? 
Lightly  I  hold  the  world,  but  I  look  upon  children  and  wife, 
And  though  I  dread  not  death,  they  make  me  in  love  with  life. 

AN    ODIOUS    COMPARISON 

WHEN  to  my  haughty  spirit  I  rehearse 

My  verse, 

Faulty  enough  it  seems  ;  yet  sometimes  when 
I  measure  it  by  that  of  other  men, 

Why,  then  — 
I  see  how  easily  it  might  be  worse. 

DIDACTIC   POET 

POET  !   you  do  your  genius  wrong 

By  always  reaching 
For  some  deep  lesson,  spoil  your  song 

By  too  much  teaching. 

Let  brighter  beauty,  rising  love, 

Just  hint  your  moral, 
As  whitening  surges  break  above 

The  reef  of  coral. 

IMPROVISATORE 

FUSED  in  the  fires  of  passion,  in  the  fervor  of  fancy  wrought, 
In  reason's  ice-brook  temper  the  flaming  sword  of  your  thought. 


328  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

XAVIEB  DE  MAISTKE'S  EPITAPH  ON  HIMSELF 
FROM  THE  FRENCH 

HERE  lies,  beneath  this  cold  gray  stone, 

Xavier,  whom  all  things  filled  with  wonder ; 

Who  sought  to  know  whence  the  winds  blow, 
And  how  and  why  Jove  rolls  the  thunder. 

He  many  a  book  of  magic  prized, 

And  read  from  morn  till  evening's  fall, 

And  drank  death's  wave  at  last,  surprised 
That  he  knew  nothing  after  all ! 

BON  VOYAGE! 

FOR  THE  FAREWELL  BANQUET  TO  F.  H.  U.,  BEFORE  HIS  DEPARTURE  FOB  GLASGOW 

WHEN  to  the  land  of  Scott  and  Burns, 
Bannocks  and  haggis,  classic  dishes ! 

Our  friend  departs,  he  takes  our  hearts 
Along  with  him,  in  all  good  wishes. 

May  these  attend,  a  viewless  throng, 
To  guard  the  ship  that  bears  him  over ! 

No  fog  delay,  nor  storm,  but  may 
Kind  fortune  be  his  constant  lover. 

If  tempests  smite  the  wild  seas  white, 

And  Titan  billows  reel  and  totter, 
Let  never  plank  go  down  with  Frank, 

Nor  Underwood  be  under  water ! 


WIDOW  BROWN'S   CHRISTMAS 

His  window  is  over  the  factory  flume ; 
And  Elkanah  there,  in  his  counting-room, 

Sits  hugging  a  littered  table. 
His  beard  is  white  as  the  foam,  and  his  cheek 
Is  weather-beaten  and  withered  and  bleak 

As  the  old  brown  factory  gable. 


WIDOW  BROWN'S  CHRISTMAS  329 

Christmas  is  near ;  and  he,  it  is  clear, 

Is  squaring  accounts  with  the  parting  year ; 

Setting  forth,  in  column  and  row, 

Whatever  a  penny  of  gain  can  show  — 

Mortgages,  dividends,  and  rents, 

City  honds  and  gover'ments ; 

A  factory  here  and  a  tannery  there, 

Good  bank  stock  and  railroad  share  ;  — 

As  fast  as  his  busy  brain  can  count, 

Or  his  busy  pen  indite  'em, 
Figuring  profit  and  gross  amount, 

And  adding  item  to  item. 
Thinks  he :  "  It 's  a  good  round  sum  I  make ; 
Don't  seem  much  like  I  was  goin'  to  break !  " 
And  he  looked  again  as  he  poised  his  pen 

To  fillip  the  drop  of  ink  off. 
But  just  as  he  gave  the  pen  a  shake, 
He  said  "  Ho  !  ho  !  "  at  a  strange  mistake 

He  found  himself  on  the  brink  of  : 
He  said  "  Ha !  ha !  "  and  his  lips  drew  in 
With  a  hard,  dry,  leathery  kind  of  grin, 
As  much  like  the  smile  of  a  crocodile 

As  anything  you  can  think  of. 

"  I  declare  !  there  's  Widder  Brown 
In  the  cottage  over  in  Tannery  Town ! 
The  family  had  the  house  rent  free 
As  long  as  her  husband  worked  for  me. 
A  good,  smart,  faithful  chap  was  Jim  — 
Wish  I  had  forty  as  good  as  him  ! 
But  he  died  one  day,  and  left  her  there ; 
And  I  put  the  place  in  the  parson's  care  — 
For  the  only  man  in  the  town  I  dare 

To  trust  is  Parson  Emery, 
To  see  that  the  house  don't  run  away, 
And  collect  the  rent  she  agreed  to  pay. 
I  '11  write  a  letter  this  very  day, 

To  jog  the  good  man's  memory." 

The  letter  was  straightway  penned  and  sent ; 
And  it  preached  hard  times  to  a  dreary  extent : 


330  THE  LOST   EARL  AND   OTHER   POEMS 

"  For  money  is  tight  at  ten  per  cent. ; 
Often  no  sooner  got  than  spent ; 
The  poor  man  finds  it  a  heavy  stent 

To  earn  his  mess  of  pottage  ; 
And  so,"  concluded  the  argument, 
"  You  may,  if  you  please,  remit  the  rent 
Jim's  widder  owes  for  the  cottage." 

In  two  days'  time  the  answer  came. 
"  The  parson  is  prompt.     But  —  what  in  the  name ! 
He  cried  as  he  opened  and  read  the  same  : 

How  extremely  odd  it  sounded ! 
"  Dear,  noble,  generous,  honored  friend  "  — 
Were  terms  he  could  n't  well  comprehend ; 
And  when  he  had  struggled  on  to  the  end, 
He  was  utterly  astounded. 

He  gasped  and  gurgled,  and  then  burst  out : 
"  What  'n  thunder  's  the  ol'  fool  ravin'  about  ? 
He  's  crazy,  without  a  shadder  o'  doubt ! 
A-writin'  to  me  as  if  I  was  a  saint ! 
Wa'al,  mabby  I  be,  and  then  mabby  I  ain't. 
An'  what 's  his  argyment  ?  why,  to  be  sure, 
That  I  am  a  marciful  man  to  the  poor, 

An'  feel  for  the  sufferin'  brother, 
An'  stay  the  widder  whose  staff  is  gone ; 
An'  so  he  continners  a-layin'  it  on, 

An'  he  ain't  sarcastical,  nuther ! 

"  Blamed  ol'  blunderhead !  could  n't  he  see 
'T  the  poor  I  was  marciful  tu  meant  me  ? 
But  here  he  goes  on,  in  a  gushin'  mood, 
To  tell  o'  the  woman's  gratitude, 
Because  I  've  been  so  exceedingly  good 

As  to  pity  her  sad  condition, 
An'  give  him  the  blessed  authority  tu 
Remit  —  remit  —  the  rent  that  is  due. 
Why  don't  he  remit,  then  ?  wish  I  knew  ! 
'Stid  o'  that,  here  's  more  of  his  hullabalew, 

To  thank  me  for  the  remission ! 


WIDOW  BROWN'S  CHRISTMAS  331 

"  Remission  —  remit  —  oh,  drat  the  dunce  !  " 

And  he  rushed  for  a  dictionary  ; 
It  having  occurred  to  him  all  at  once 

That  the  meanings  sometimes  vary 
Of  even  the  simplest  words  we  write ; 
And  that  a  prosy  old  parson  might 
Use  one,  and  a  man  of  business  quite 

Another,  vocabulary. 
Finger  and  eye  ran  down  the  page  : 
"  R,  a  —  R,  e  "  —  he  was  flushed  with  rage  : 
"  Remember  —  Remind  —  Remit !  "  —  at  last 
The  terrible  talon  had  it  fast, 
With  the  definition  against  it  set : 
"  Send  back,"  he  read  ;  but,  lower  yet, 
"  To  release,  to  forgive,  as  a  sin  or  a  debt !  " 
Ah,  through  that  mesh  in  the  treacherous  net 

Had  slipped  the  widow's  pittance ! 
'T  was  so  !  't  was  strange !  't  was  very  absurd, 
That  thus  from  a  phrase,  or  a  single  word, 
With  equal  reason  could  be  inferred 

Collection  of  debt  or  quittance ! 
Words  have  their  forks,  like  highways,  whence 
To  left  and  right  run  the  roads  of  sense ; 
And,  taking  the  wrong  derivative, 
The  heedless  old  parson  had  come  to  give 

Remission  instead  of  remittance. 

Elkanah  glared  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
With  a  snort  at  the  book,  and  a  scoff  at  the  men 
Who  invented  the  language,  seized  his  pen, 
Tore  one  letter,  and  wrote  again, 

Protruding  his  chin,  while  the  hard  dry  grin 

Grew  terribly  savage  and  sinister ; 
Till,  too  impatient  to  brook  delay, 
He  quite  forgot  it  was  Christmas-day, 
Swung  on  his  ulster,  and  swooped  away 

Toward  Tannery  Town  and  the  Widow  Brown 
And  the  good  old  blundering  minister. 

As  out  by  the  forenoon  train  he  went, 
He  had  ample  time  to  consider : 


332  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  To  be  soft-soaped  to  sich  an  extent  — 
Cracked  up  like  a  spavined  boss  that 's  meant 

To  be  sold  to  the  highest  bidder  — 
It 's  pooty  dumbed  rough  on  a  plain  old  gent 
That  never  was  known  to  give  a  cent, 
Say  nothin'  o'  seventy  dollars'  rent, 

To  anybody's  widder  ! 
An'  I  ain't  one  o'  the  kind  that  cares 
To  be  boosted  up  in  a  woman's  prayers 

Fer  a  favor  I  never  did  her. 

"  Yet  she  might  pray  fer  me  all  her  days, 
An'  I  would  n't  object  to  the  parson's  praise, 

That  he  spreads  so  thick  in  his  letter  ; 
But  though  he  believes  it  himself,  and  though 
Other  folks  may  think  it 's  all  jes'  so, 

The  plague  is,  I  know  better  ! 
He  '11  wonder  what  sort  of  a  beast  I  be, 
When  I  tell  him  square  out  how  it  seemed  to  me, 
What  a  blamed,  ridickelous,  fool's  idee, 

That  I  should  forgive  a  debtor  !  " 

Quick  moist  flushes,  strange  hot  streaks, 

Shot  down  to  his  shins  and  up  to  his  cheeks. 

He  loosened  his  collar,  and  wondered  what 

In  time  made  'em  keep  the  cars  so  hot. 

Still,  as  he  thought  of  the  interview 

He  was  going  to  seek,  the  warmer  he  grew. 

And  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  leer,  "  Must  be 

I  'm  fond  of  parsons'  s'ciety ! 

Fer  what  else  under  the  canopy 

I  'm  makin'  the  trip  fer,  I  can't  see ; 

Sence  a  letter  or  tu  would  as  soon  undu 

The  snarl  he  's  got  me  inter, 
Save  railroad  fare,  an'  the  wear  an'  tear 

Of  a  journey  in  midwinter. 

"  It 's  an  awk'ard  mess,  I  du  declare ! 
The  widder  she  '11  cry,  an'  the  parson  he  '11  stare, 
An'  like  enough  somebody  else  will  swear  — 


WIDOW  BROWN'S  CHRISTMAS  333 

Wish  I  was  back  in  my  office  chair ! 
Fer  why  should  I  go  twelve  mile  or  so 

An'  lose  my  time  an'  my  dinner, 
To  prove  to  their  face,  beyond  a  doubt, 
JT I  ain't  no  saint,  as  they  make  out, 

But  a  hardened  sort  of  a  sinner  ?  " 

Some  such  thoughts  perplexed  his  brain, 
As  up  to  the  station  rolled  the  train, 
With  slackening  speed  and  brakes  screwed  down, 
And  the  brakeman  bawled  out,  "  Tannery  Town !  " 
"  Wa'al,  here  I  be  !  "    With  a  gathering  frown 
And  firm-set  teeth,  old  Elkanah  straight 
Took  his  way  to  the  parson's  gate ; 
No  longer  inclined  to  turn  about, 

In  a  flurry  of  confusion, 
But  grimly  resolved  to  carry  out 

His  original  resolution. 
Though,  after  all,  he  approached  the  spot, 
Outwardly  cold  and  inwardly  hot, 
As  a  brave  man  goes  to  be  hanged  or  shot, 
Or  whatever  else  he  thinks  is  not 

The  thing  for  his  constitution. 
And  when  this  answer  he  received, 
"  Parson  ain't  to  hum  "  —  will  it  be  believed  ? 
He  felt  like  the  very  same  man  reprieved 

At  the  moment  of  execution. 

Wa'al,  no,  he  would  n't  go  in  and  wait ; 

He  stood  in  the  snow  at  the  parsonage  gate : 

No  train  back  till  half-past  one, 

And  the  village  bells  had  just  begun 

To  ring  for  noon  :  for  a  minute  or  two 

He  stood,  uncertain  what  to  do, 

Looking  doubtfully  up  and  down 

The  dreary  streets  of  Tannery  Town, 

And  thought  of  his  money  and  Mrs.  Brown : 

Then  this  is  what  he  did  do  — 
He  turned  his  feet  up  the  snowy  street, 

And  went  to  call  on  the  widow. 


334  THE  LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

'T  was  Christinas  time,  as  I  said  before ; 
And  when,  arrived  at  the  cottage  door, 

He  reached  for  the  old  bell  handle, 
He  paused  a  moment,  amazed  and  grim, 
For  he  heard  such  a  racket  as  seemed  to  him, 
In  the  home  of  the  late  lamented  Jim, 

Sufficient  cause  for  scandal. 

A  short,  sharp  ring :  then  a  hurried  noise 
Of  whispering,  scampering  girls  and  boys ; 
And  the  door  was  opened  a  little  space, 
Through  which  peered  out,  with  a  bashful  grace, 

A  surprisingly  pretty-looking, 
Timidly  smiling,  bright  young  blonde  ; 
And  Elkanah  caught,  from  the  room  beyond, 
A  savory  sniff,  a  wonderful  whiff, 

Of  most  delicious  cooking. 

He  sees  a  table,  with  neat  cloth  spread, 
Steaming  dishes,  and  cream-white  bread ; 
Cranberry  sauce,  and  thick  squash  pies ; 
And  the  curly  brown  pates  and  wondering  eyes 

Of  the  imps  that  had  made  the  clatter ; 
Then  the  mother  just  bringing  in,  to  crown 
Her  banquet,  a  beautiful,  golden-brown, 

Great  roasted  goose  on  a  platter. 

A  crabbed  old  man,  to  whom  the  sight 
Of  happy  children  gave  small  delight ; 
A  hungry  man,  who  had  come  so  far 
To  a  feast  his  presence  could  only  mar ; 

An  iron-fisted  miser, 
Who  would  seldom  afford  himself  a  fat, 
Delectable  Christmas  goose  like  that, 
Or  indulge  in  anything  half  so  good  — 
Confronting  the  widow,  there  he  stood, 

Just  showing  one  grim  incisor ; 
And  it  certainly  seemed  that  his  presence  would 

To  say  the  least  —  surprise  her. 


WIDOW   BROWN'S   CHRISTMAS  335 

For  he  said  to  himself,  "  Her  means  are  spent, 
An'  she  has  n't  a  penny  to  pay  her  rent ! 

While  this  is  the  way  she  gorges 
Her  ravenous  tribe  on  the  fat  of  the  land. 
I  '11  let  her  know  that  I  understand 

Whose  money  pays  f er  the  orgies !  " 

But,  seeing  the  old  man  standing  there, 
The  widow,  seemingly  unaware 

Of  his  brow's  severe  contraction ; 
Perceiving  only  his  thin  white  hair, 
And  his  almost  venerable  air, 
Wiped  her  fingers,  and  placed  a  chair, 

With  a  charmingly  natural  action ; 
Welcoming  him  with  never  a  trace 
Of  guile  in  her  smiling  and  grateful  face ; 
Accounting  this  visit  the  crowning  grace 

Of  his  noble  benefaction. 

"  Oh,  sir !  "  she  began,  "  I  am  glad  you  are  here  "  — 

With  a  quivering  lip  and  a  starting  tear  — 
"  To  see  what  happiness  "  (this  was  gall 

To  the  stingy  old  wretch)  "  you  have  given  us  all ! 

Since  you  were  so  good  "  —  "  Not  I,"  he  cried ; 
"  I  never  was  good !  "     But  she  replied, 

With  gentle,  sweet  insistence : 
"  It  seems  but  a  trifle  to  you,  no  doubt ; 

Such  kindness  as  yours  "  —  Here  he  burst  out, 
"  I  tell  ye,  woman,  ye  're  talkin'  about 
A  thing  that  has  no  existence." 

"  Ah,  you  may  say  that,  since  you  have  shown 

A  goodness  you  are  too  good  to  own ! 

But  I  could  never,  with  what  I  know, 

Permit  another  to  wrong  you  so." 

Then  up  spoke  one  of  the  younger  crew : 
"  Ye  may  bet  yer  dollars  on  that !  it 's  true ; 

For  only  yesterday,  I  tell  you, 
Was  n't  she  in  high  dudgeon, 

Just  hearing  you  called  by  Deacon  Shaw 


336  THE   LOST  EARL  AND   OTHER  POEMS 

The  keenest  old  skinflint  ever  he  saw ! 
He  said  be  would  sooner  have  hoped  to  draw 
Sap  from  a  hatchet  or  blood  from  a  straw, 
Than  money  that  was  n't  allowed  by  law, 
From  such  an  old  curmudgeon. 

"  Well,  what  have  I  said  ?  "     "  Hush,  Jamie,  hush !  " 

Cries  the  mother,  in  consternation ; 
While  Elkanah  starts,  with  an  angry  flush 

And  a  vigorous  exclamation. 
"  Did  he  say  that  ?  —  say  that  of  me  ? 

He 's  tighter  himself  than  the  bark  of  a  tree." 
"  He  has  more  heart  than  he  lets  folks  see  : 

A  little  like  you  in  that,"  says  she. 
"  Ho !  ho !  wa'al,  wa'al !  that 's  a  queer  idee ! 
That 's  a  curi's  ca'calation !  " 

"  But  he,  when  at  last  he  understood 

What  a  friend  you  had  been,  how  exceedingly  good, 

To  my  poor  orphans,"  she  went  on, 
"  And  me  —  for  the  sake  of  him  that  is  gone  — 

He  was  humbled ;  he  took  it  quite  to  heart ; 

Declared  you  had  acted  a  noble  part, 
And  expressed  sincere  repentance 

For  having  misjudged  you  so  till  now. 

But  your  example  "  —  "  Example !  I  vow, 

Mis'  Brown,"  snarls  Elkanah ;  but  somehow 
He  could  n't  complete  the  sentence. 

"  Your  Christian  example  !  "  the  widow  cries, 

"  Who  wants  proof  of  it  ?  there  it  lies  "  — 
With  a  glance  of  pride  at  the  great  squash  pies, 
And  the  goose  superbly  basted. 

"  The  deacon  was  here  at  half -past  one ; 
And  at  half-past  two  the  proof  had  begun : 
The  goose  was  brought  by  the  deacon's  son, 
And  then  it  seemed  as  if  every  one 
Must  do  as  the  deacon  and  you  had  done." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  says  Jamie  ;  "  and  was  n't  it  fun ! 
It  was  ring,  ring,  ring !  it  was  run,  run,  run ! 


WIDOW  BROWN'S  CHRISTMAS  337 

Squashes  that  weighed  pretty  nigh  a  ton ! 

Such  apples  you  never  tasted !  " 
"  It  came  to  us  in  our  sorest  need," 
The  widow  resumed ;  "  and  all  are  agreed 
'T  was  a  harvest  of  which  you  sowed  the  seed. 
You  see  your  charity  was,  indeed, 

An  example  that  was  n't  wasted." 

"  My  charity !  "  Elkanah  groaned.     "  Well,  well !  " 
"  'T  was  more  of  a  blessing  than  I  can  tell ;  "  — 

She  choked  a  little  and  wiped  a  tear  — 
"  For  we  have  been  dreadfully  poor  this  year. 

'T  is  a  hard,  hard  struggle  to  provide 

For  my  five  little  ones  since  he  died. 

Faithfully,  every  day,  I  meant 

To  save  a  little  to  pay  my  rent ; 

I  stinted  and  planned,  but  still  I  found, 

As  often  as  Saturday  night  came  round, 

I  had  spared,  when  they  were  patched  and  fed, 

Hardly  enough  for  Sunday's  bread. 

Such  constant  weariness,  want,  and  care 

Seemed  often  more  than  a  life  could  bear. 

Then  came,  oh !  sir,  your  gracious  gift, 

Which  all  of  a  sudden  seemed  to  lift 

The  burden  that  weighed  me  to  the  ground ; 

And  all  these  other  good  friends  came  round ; 

And  so,  in  our  joy  and  thankfulness, 

It  seemed  to  me  I  could  do  no  less 

Than  make  a  feast,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 
"  Be  patient !  be  quiet !  "     For  all  the  while 
The  hungry  children  clamored, 

And  climbed  the  chairs,  and  peeped  at  the  pies, 

And  ogled  the  goose  with  wistful  eyes. 
"  'T  is  a  favor,"  said  she,  "  I  should  greatly  prize, 

If  you  would  sit  by,  and  not  despise 

The  bounty  which  Heaven  through  you  supplies." 
"  Hem !  wa'al !  ye  take  me  by  surprise. 

Don't  know,"  the  old  man  stammered. 

She  smilingly  reached  for  his  coat  and  hat, 
And  the  goose  was  fragrant,  the  goose  was  fat ! 


338  THE  LOST  EARL   AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  I  think  you  will  stay."    "  Wa'al,  as  to  that, 

I  don't  dine  out  very  often ; 
I  called  to  explain  —  but  never  mind. 
Fact  is,  Mis'  Brown,  I  have  n't  dined ; 
And  if  you  insist  —  sence  you  air  so  kind  "  — 
He  was  rather  surprised  himself  to  find 
His  heart  beginning  to  soften. 

"  Don't  care  'f  I  du."    And  down  he  sat. 
The  goose  was  fragrant,  the  goose  was  fat ! 

The  old  man  did  the  carving  ; 
The  sauce  was  dished,  the  gravy  poured, 
And  the  plates  all  round  that  little  board 
Were  filled  in  a  manner  that  did  n't  afford 
The  slightest  hint  of  starving. 

Not  in  all  that  dreary  year 

Had  her  cottage  known  such  cheer. 

With  hope,  and  her  happy  children  near, 

The  widow  smiled  contented. 
Even  old  Elkanah  ceased  to  be 
Greatly  scandalized  to  see 
Cheerful  faces  and  childish  glee 

In  the  home  of  the  late  lamented. 

Nature's  ways  are  wise  and  kind  : 

Clouds  pass,  dawn  breaks,  and  ever  behind 

Each  dark  sea  hollow  swells  a  wave  ; 

And  fresh  grass  grows  on  the  new-made  grave  ; 

And  softly  over  the  broken  heart, 

And  its  sorrowful  recollections, 
The  leaves  of  another  hope  will  start, 

And  tender  new  affections. 

The  widow  talked  and  told  her  plans  : 
What  a  dutiful  child  was  Nance  ! 
The  parson  had  got  her  boys  a  chance 
To  blow  the  organ  the  coming  year : 
"  So  there  will  be  twenty  dollars  clear ! 


WIDOW  BROWN'S  CHRISTMAS  339 

The  girls  will  help  me  more  and  more ; 
I  '11  sew  ;  and  often,  as  heretofore, 
Earn  bread  for  the  morrow  while  they  sleep ; 
And  so  I  have  hopes  that  I  yet  may  keep 

My  little  flock  together  — 
With  Heaven  so  kind  and  friends  so  good  — 
Send  them  to  school,  and  provide  them  food 

And  shelter  from  the  weather. 

"  But  oh  !  what  a  change  for  them  and  me ; 
How  different  now  it  all  would  be, 
If  my  dear  husband  "  —  Mrs.  Brown 
Here,  for  some  reason,  quite  broke  down  ; 
And  even  old  Elkanah's  sight  grew  weak. 
You  might  have  observed  in  his  withered  cheek 

Some  unaccustomed  twitches, 
And  in  his  voice,  when  he  tried  to  speak, 

Some  very  unusual  hitches ; 
For,  seeing  how  long  she  yet  must  strain 
Her  utmost  energies,  just  to  gain 
Bread  for  her  babes  —  perhaps  in  vain  — 
He  had  some  twinges  of  shame  and  pain, 
And  a  curious  feeling  I  can't  explain, 

At  the  thought  of  his  hoarded  riches. 

"  Hem !  wa'al,  Mis'  Brown !  it 's  a  pooty  tough  case  !  " 
He  made  a  motion  as  if  to  place 
His  hand  in  his  pocket,  but  drew  it  back. 
"  Though  I  must  say,  you  've  got  a  knack ! 
You  're  gettin'  along,  an'  I  'm  dreffle  glad ! 
No  more,  no,  thank'ee,  ma'am !     I  hain't  had 
Sich  a  dinner  as  this,  I  don't  know  when  !  " 
Down  went  the  uncertain  hand  again. 

"  Your  children  are  well,  an'  growin' ; 
Few  years,  your  boys  '11  be  rich  men  — 

Mabby  they  will,  no  knowin'." 
He  merely  pushed  back  his  empty  plate, 
Then  tugged  at  his  watch.     "  Ha  !  is  it  so  late  ? 
I  'd  no  idee  on't !  train  won't  wait ; 

Guess  I  '11  haf  to  be  goin' !  " 


340  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

"  Must  you,  indeed  !     How  the  time  has  flown !  " 
The  lonely  old  man  had  never  known 
So  grateful  a  soul,  a  look  and  tone 

So  gentle  and  so  caressing ; 
And  while  she  handed  his  hat  and  coat, 
Arranged  the  collar  about  his  throat, 
Smoothed  the  creases,  and  brushed  his  arm, 
He  felt  a  strange,  bewildering  charm, 
The  very  touch  of  her  hand  shed  such 

Unconscious  love  and  blessing  ! 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  he  came  to  say, 
To  explain !  "  cries  Jamie.     "  Ah,  yes !  by  the  way ! 

Says  Elkanah,  slightly  flurried ; 
"  A  leetle  mistake  —  but  that 's  all  right ! 
The  parson,  he  did  n't  take  in,  not  quite, 
My  full  intent  regardin'  the  rent : 

Don't  be  the  least  mite  worried 
'Bout  that  fer  sartin  another  year.  — 
Bless  me  !  I  b'lieve  it 's  the  train  I  hear  ! 

Good-day !  "     And  off  he  hurried. 

He  seemed  surrounded  and  pursued 

By  spirits  of  joy  and  gratitude  ! 

And  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  must  conclude, 

Although  the  ol'  parson  wa'n't  very  shrewd, 

'T  was  a  lucky  mistake  o'  his'n  !  " 
And  he  felt  some  most  surprising  things, 
Strange  perturbations  and  flutterings, 
As  of  something  within  him  spreading  wings  — 

The  angel  within,  new-risen  ! 

"  I  'm  beat  if  there  ain't  the  parson  now !  " 
With  eager  stride  and  radiant  brow 
The  minister  crossed  a  steep  by-street, 
Through  ridges  of  snow  leg-deep,  to  greet 
The  friend  of  the  widow  and  fatherless, 
Who  growled  to  himself,  "  Good  thing,  I  guess, 
Fer  some  of  the  fatherless  folks  we  know, 
Me  and  him  did  n't  meet  an  hour  ago  — 

Good  thing  all  round,  should  n't  wonder ! " 


WIDOW  BROWN'S   CHRISTMAS  341 

The  parson  came  panting  up  the  hill, 
Hands  out,  with  a  greeting  of  warm  good-will ; 
All  smiles  ;  serenely  unconscious  still 
Of  his  most  amazing  blunder. 

A  soul  as  simple  as  rills  that  run 
Joyous  and  clear  in  the  summer  sun  ! 
Not  one  who  had  chosen  his  work,  but  one 

The  Lord  Himself  had  chosen ; 
A  child  of  faith,  and  a  shepherd  indeed ; 
Not  one  of  those  whose  formal  creed 
Has  the  tinkling  sound  and  the  hollow  look 
Of  ice  left  over  a  shrunken  brook  — 
Shrunken  away  from  the  living  day, 

Leaving  its  surface  frozen. 

Under  the  leafless  village  elms 

The  parson  waylays  and  overwhelms 

With  more  felicitation 
Of  the  late  epistolary  sort 
The  impatient  old  man,  who  cuts  him  short 

With  a  quaint  gesticulation. 

"  No  more  o'  that,  please  understand ! 

I  've  seen  Jim's  widder."     This  time  the  hand 

Dives  into  the  pocket,  and  brings  out 

A  bright  bank-note  :  "  Guess  the'  ain't  no  doubt 

But  what  we  'd  oughter  give  her  a  lift ; 

An'  here  's  a  trifle,  a  Christmas  gift, 
I  was  pooty  nigh  fergittin'. 

Remit  her  rent  the  comin'  year ; 

And  I  'd  like  to  remit  to  her  now  this  'ere. 

By  the  way !  "  drawls  he,  with  a  sidelong  leer, 
"  Did  j'  ever  notice  —  it 's  kind  o'  queer  — 
There  's  tew  ways  o'  remittin'  ?  " 


342  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

NEWLY   GATHERED  LEAVES 

EVENING   AT  NAPLES 

I 

THE  day  went  down,  beneath  an  amber  sky, 
On  all  the  wonders  of  that  magic  land  : 

There,  an  old  crater's  burnt-out  Cyclops  eye  : 

Here,  Virgil  paced  in  thought  the  curving  strand. 

On  shores  and  cities  glowed  the  late,  low  sun ; 

On  plumed  Vesuvius  mirrored  in  the  wave ; 
And  faintly  flushed  the  wan-ribbed  skeleton, 

Pompeii  standing  in  her  open  grave. 

On  plume  and  peak  the  parting  sunset  flame 
Lingered,  diffused,  an  upward-fading  gleam. 

Capri,  remote  on  the  rimmed  sea,  became 
A  roseate  mist  and  melted  into  dream. 

The  soft  sirocco,  from  hot  Afric  sands 

Blowing  all  day  across  the  Midland  Deep, 

Sank  with  the  sun  upon  the  empurpled  lands, 
With  all  its  Libyan  languors  lulled  asleep. 

II 

I  stood  at  evening  on  a  terraced  height 

And  viewed  the  wondrous  world,  city  and  sea, 

Sails  softly  wafted  on  pale  bands  of  light, 
Or  to  still  moorings  drifting  dreamily. 

The  goat-bells'  tinkling  ceased  upon  the  air  ; 

The  human  tide's  interminable  roar 
Rose,  a  dull  murmur,  to  my  terrace  stair, 

The  sullen  thunder  of  a  lone,  low  shore. 

Garden  and  villa  and  curved  parapet 

Darkened  around  me  ;  myriad-roofed,  far  down 

The  mountain-slopes,  where  coast  and  mountain  met, 
Gloomy  and  vast  and  slumberous,  spread  the  town. 


EVENING  AT  NAPLES  343 

III 

As  night  drew  on,  unnumbered  gleams  appeared  ; 

Where  lanterned  ships  on  lanterned  shadows  lay ; 
By  distant  coasts ;  and  where  Vesuvius  reared 

His  tawny  torch  above  the  clouded  Bay ; 

The  lighthouse  bursting  into  sudden  blaze, 

Flashing  its  spear  of  beams  across  the  sea ; 
The  broad  Riviera's  constellated  rays ; 

And  all  the  city's  starred  immensity. 

By  day  unseen,  the  crater's  spectral  light 

Increased  and  reddened,  far  aloof  and  lone  ; 
The  vulture  cloud  abroad  on  the  still  night 

Spread  balanced  wings,  perched  on  the  flickering  cone. 

Unseen  by  day,  that  dull  portentous  glow, 

A  pulsing  core  of  fire  that  climbed  and  fell, 
Illumed  the  murk,  —  mysterious,  veiled,  and  slow,  — 

Dim  flashes  from  the  throbbing  throat  of  hell. 

The  upheaved  cloud,  with  windless  folds  wide  flung, 
Huge  as  the  mountain's  double,  piled  in  space, 

Poised  peak  on  peak  miraculously  hung, 
Burying  the  stars  in  its  inverted  base. 

IV 

Anon  from  the  snow-muffled  Apennines, 

Fitful  at  first,  a  rushing  wind  came  forth 
And  whirled  about  me,  clashing  boughs  and  vines, 

Keen  as  a  gust  from  my  own  native  North. 

Over  the  city  roofs  and  courts  it  played ; 

With  wafts  of  most  delicious  coolness  blessed 
The  stifled  streets ;  and,  swelling  seaward,  swayed 

The  pillared  cloud  on  the  volcano's  crest. 

As  if  a  bodiless  power  with  wings  of  air 

Closed  with  the  phantom,  scattered  and  dislimned 

The  towering  shape,  and  swept  the  Orient  bare, 
With  all  its  ancient  lustrous  orbs  undimmed  : 


344  THE   LOST   EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ranging  the  heavens  forever,  the  Hyades, 

Like  starry  waterfowl  in  arrowy  flight ; 
The  Bull's  bright  horns,  the  Pleiads'  golden  hees ; 

And  there,  most  glorious  of  the  hosts  of  night,  — 

Emerging  from  the  crater's  flying  reek 

Back  from  that  gorge  of  Chaos  wildly  blown, 

One  conquering  knee  above  the  red-lipped  peak,  — 
Orion  with  his  sword  and  blazing  zone ! 

CUBA 

'T  is  the  island  of  the  orange,  of  the  yucca  and  the  palm, 

Where  the  white-armed,  laughing  beaches  lave  in  coves  of  foam-edged 

calm, 
And  the  shy  flamingo  rises  like  a  winged  oriflamme. 

'T  is  the  home  of  endless  summer,  by  cool  trade-winds  overblown ; 

'T  is  the  Eden  of  the  Ocean  lying  lovely  and  alone, 

But  trailed  over  by  the  serpent,  and  with  sin  and  ruin  sown. 

'T  is  the  island  of  the  mango,  the  banana  and  the  cane ; 

'T  is  the  land  of  beauty  blighted  by  the  spoiler's  cruel  reign ; 

'T  is  the  haunt  of  vultures  flocking  to  the  devastated  plain. 

'T  is  the  isle  of  birds  and  blossoms,  sea-girt  realm  of  bloom  and  song ; 
Land  of  yet  unconquered  freemen  who  have  striven  and  suffered  long ; 
Land  awaiting  its  redemption  from  four  centuries  of  wrong ! 
May,  1898. 

A   LITTLE   CHILD 

UNCONSCIOUS  childhood's  tiny  grasp 

Draws  us  from  business,  books,  and  art ; 

Mightier  than  all  the  world,  the  clasp 
Of  one  small  hand  upon  the  heart ! 

Of  late,  with  lids  that  mimicked  death, 

In  fever  flames  our  darling  lay  ; 
While  we  who  watched  her  fluttering  breath 

Could  only  wait,  and  hope,  and  pray. 


A  LITTLE  CHILD  345 


Pale  gliding  shapes  and  whispered  words 
Haunted  the  hushed  and  shadowy  room, 

Till  the  first  twitter  of  the  birds 

Awoke,  and  daybreak  edged  the  gloom. 

On  vacant  chairs  and  silent  walls, 
Where  lonely  watchers  of  the  night 

Grow  old,  how  strange,  how  spectral,  falls 
The  mockery  of  the  morning  light ! 

As  in  a  trance  of  fear  we  moved  : 

Peril  to  one  we  cannot  save, 
Peril  and  pain  to  one  beloved, 

Make  trembling  cowards  of  the  brave. 

The  dawn  rose,  pitilessly  bright ; 

The  sunshine  wore  an  alien  hue ; 
There  was  not  any  more  delight 

In  song  of  bird  or  spark  of  dew. 

How  idle  seemed  the  task  that  claimed 
A  cold,  accustomed  service  still ! 

Each  worldly  wish  was  quelled  and  shamed  ; 
Alike  were  tidings  good  and  ill. 

The  golden  fields  and  azure  skies 
Were  veiled  in  sorrowful  eclipse, 

Till  beamed  again  those  darkened  eyes, 
Till  smiled  once  more  those  childish  lips. 

Another  night :  all  night  she  slept. 

She  woke  :  O  joy !  was  ever  dawn 
So  heavenly  sweet  as  that  which  swept 

With  drizzling  showers  the  trees  and  lawn ! 

The  hillside  frowned,  by  lowering  brows 

Of  gloomy  thickets  overhung  ; 
But  in  the  dripping  chestnut  boughs 

A  cheerful  robin  perched  and  sung. 


346  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Dear  omen  of  her  blest  release 

From  pain  and  the  Great  Dread  past  by  ! 

Peace  filled  our  souls,  the  light  of  peace 
Was  over  all  the  earth  and  sky. 

Oh,  happiest  day  of  all  the  year ! 

Each  moment  had  its  joyous  thrill : 
Whatever  came  brought  hope  and  cheer ; 

Alike  were  tidings  good  and  ill. 

Now  never  more,  O  heart,  be  sad, 

When  cloud  and  tempest  drench  the  pane, 

But  keep  the  day  with  thoughts  as  glad 
As  robins  singing  in  the  rain  ! 


OWNERSHIP 

ALONG  the  endlessly  blockaded  street 

Our  car  moved,  with  a  hundred  starts  and  stops. 

Two  children,  kneeling  on  the  cushioned  seat, 
Looked  out  upon  the  gay,  wide-windowed  shops. 

A  boy  and  girl,  both  delicately  fair  : 

He,  with  bright  ringlets  rippling  down  his  back ; 

She,  with  a  wondrous  fleece  of  flaxen  hair ; 
A  sleek  old  nurse  beside  them,  shining  black. 

They  watched  the  shops,  and  played  a  pretty  game 

Of  owning  things,  with  eager  rivalry : 
Whatever  each  was  first  to  choose  and  name 

Was  his  or  hers,  as  it  might  chance  to  be. 

"  That  is  my  rocking-horse  !  "  declared  the  boy. 

And  she  :  "  The  whip  is  mine  !  the  yellow  reins  !  " 
So  they  contended,  claiming  every  toy, 
And  boasting  their  imaginary  gains. 

" That  is  my  lamp !  "     "I  '11  have  the  lamp-shade !  "     " No ! 
The  shade  goes  with  the  lamp !  "     "  You  selfish  thing  ! 


OUT  IN  THE  WORLD  347 

You  took  my  horse's  reins  !     You  cheat !  "     And  so 
They  fell  at  last  to  downright  quarrelling. 

"  Don't  call  me  selfish  !  "     "  But  you  are  !  "     "  You  dare  "  — 

She  tweaked  his  curls,  he  doubled  his  small  fists, 
And  in  a  moment  they  were  pulling  hair, 
And  pounding  like  a  pair  of  pugilists. 

The  unconcerned  old  negress  all  the  while 

Showed  her  white  teeth  and  laughed  with  cynic  lip, 

As  I  suppose  dark  angels  sometimes  smile 
At  men's  mad  strife  for  transient  ownership. 

A  BIRTHDAY  WISH 

TO   A   YOUNG  VIOLINIST 

WHEN  you  take  up  your  violin,  how  soon 
The  lax,  discordant  strings  are  touched  in  tune 
To  the  sweet  sequence  of  enchanting  sounds  ; 
Heaven's  golden  ladder  of  melodious  rounds  ! 

So,  on  this  birthday,  take  up  life  anew, 
Dear  girl !  and  with  resolves  so  firm  and  true, 
Master  its  chords,  that  all  the  year  shall  be 
Attuned  to  soul-uplifting  harmony  ! 


OUT  IN  THE  WORLD 

THE  inevitable  day 

Of  their  parting  sweetly  rose : 
Day  of  dread  to  them  that  stay, 

Day  of  hope  to  him  who  goes. 

When  the  rumbling  coach-and-four 
Round  the  shady  porch  appears, 

They  dismiss  him  from  the  door 
With  their  blessings  and  their  tears. 


348  THE  LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Something  bright  his  eyelash  hides : 
On  the  coach's  topmost  seat 

Bravely  smiling  forth  he  rides, 
In  the  Maytime  fresh  and  sweet. 

Joy  with  him  has  fled  away ; 

And  a  strange  funereal  gloom 
Falls  upon  the  vacant  day, 

Fills  his  empty,  silent  room. 

Youth  is  thoughtless,  not  unkind : 
Ah,  dear  boy,  if  he  but  knew 

What  deep  solace  they  will  find 
In  his  letters,  all  too  few ! 

They  await  each  hour  that  brings 

Tidings  of  his  fair  career, 
With  what  anxious  questionings, 

With  what  faith,  and  with  what  fear ! 

Faith,  that  ever  in  the  sight 

Of  protecting  seraphim 
He  will  follow  truth  and  right, 

Letting  fortune  follow  him. 

Will  he,  in  a  world  where  wrong 
Sways  the  many,  right  the  few, 

Tread  with  instincts  pure  and  strong, 
Shun  the  false  and  choose  the  true  ? 

He  the  while,  with  hope  elate, 
As  if  life  were  always  May, 

Journeys  onward,  to  what  fate 
He  divines  no  more  than  they. 

Is  it  health  and  happiness  ? 

Is  it  soul-consuming  care  ? 
Is  it  honor  and  success  ? 

Is  it  failure  and  despair  ? 


IN  A  CORRIDOR  349 


Enterprise  and  wit  and  skill, 

Haughty,  tender,  brave  and  just, 

Shall  his  future  not  fulfil 

His  bright  promise,  their  great  trust  ? 

Vain  the  question :  well,  may  be, 
That  beyond  the  azure  brim 

Of  each  day  no  man  can  see 

What  the  wide  world  holds  for  him. 

Learn  this  truth  and  leave  the  rest : 

Each,  whatever  his  estate, 
In  his  own  unconscious  breast 

Bears  the  talisman  of  fate. 

Who  has  strength,  with  self-control, 
Love  and  faith  and  rectitude, 

Fortune  fails  not,  for  his  soul 
Is  the  lodestar  of  all  good. 


IN  A  CORRIDOR 

SCENE.  —  The  National  Capitol 

WE  two  alone  in  the  corridor, 

As  I  live !  and  meeting  face  to  face  ! 
Will  he  turn  back  ?  or  must  I  give  place  ? 

Or,  here  on  the  marble  floor, 

Shall  we  settle  our  little  score  ? 

Head  high,  with  its  long  lank  Indian  hair, 
Nose  straight  before  and  eyes  askew, 
He  stalks  right  on,  and  sweeps  me  through 

With  a  cold,  unconscious  stare, 

As  if  I  were  made  of  air  ! 

He  had  always  just  that  insolent  way, 

With  his  Southern  blood  and  his  cavalier  scorn. 
Joe  Belter,  old  boy,  look  here !     You  've  sworn 

To  shoot  me  at  sight,  they  say, 

Here  I  am  !     Now  shoot  away ! 


350  THE  LOST  EARL   AND   OTHER  POEMS 

In  self-defence  you  will  fight  ?     That 's  cool, 
After  all  the  terrible  threats  I  've  heard. 
I  thought  Joe  Belter  a  man  of  his  word  ; 

You  were  never  a  coward  or  fool 

When  we  were  together  at  school. 

You  sneer  — Have  I  anything  else  to  say  ? 
Well,  yes  !     'T  was  curious,  but,  somehow, 
I  could  n't  but  think,  as  you  passed  just  now, 

Of  the  look  you  gave  old  Pray  — 

Do  you  remember  the  day  ? 

For  the  silly  lampoon  we  had  posted,  I 

Had  been  just  expelled.     Up  towered  a  head : 
"  If  he  goes,  /  go  too  !  "  you  said  ; 

And  swept  him,  as  you  marched  by, 

With  just  that  look  of  the  eye. 

We  went,  as  free  as  the  winds  that  blew, 

To  the  woods,  and  lived  in  our  hut  by  the  lake, 
Till  you  were  recalled,  and  I  for  your  sake. 
Then,  only  to  be  with  you, 
Was  the  sweetest  pleasure  I  knew  ! 

You  may  scoff  at  it  now  ;  but  I  tell  you,  Joe, 
I  could  never  forget  some  things  that  have  been. 
How  first  did  our  wretched  feud  begin  ? 

For,  I  vow,  I  hardly  know, 

It  happened  so  long  ago  ! 

The  worst  that  ever  made  fools  contend : 
The  long  revenge  of  a  love  reversed  ! 
No  foe  so  bitter  as  he  who,  first 

Having  loved  too  much,  in  the  end 

Has  turned  against  his  friend. 

I  ruined  your  railroad  scheme  ?     And  so 

You  threatened  my  life  !     Of  course  I  knew 
I  might  have  been  Governor  but  for  you  ; 

And  I  merely  returned  the  blow 

Of  a  couple  of  years  ago. 


IN  A  CORRIDOR  351 


So  the  game  goes  on.     But  in  spite  of  all, 

There  are  things,  as  I  said,  that  I  can't  forget ; 
And  when,  after  all  these  years,  we  met 
The  other  night  at  the  ball, 
And  throughout  that  glittering  hall,  — 

In  the  great  gay  world  assembled  there,  — 
No  strangers  passed  each  other  by 
So  strange  to  each  other  as  you  and  I, 

And  I  saw  the  gray  in  your  hair, 

And  your  look  of  age  and  care  ; 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  it  all  took  flight,  — 
The  buzzing  crowd,  the  wavering  dance, 
The  flowers,  the  jewels,  the  butterfly  fans, 

The  beauty  and  blaze  of  light,  — 

And  we  were  alone  in  the  night ! 

Alone  by  the  moonlit  lake  once  more, 

Stretched  side  by  side  on  the  soft  warm  sand ; 
The  ripples  ran  glistening  up  the  strand, 

A  wind  from  the  woodland  bore 

Fresh  odors  along  the  shore. 

A  whippoorwill  sang  near  by  in  the  wood, 
And  his  voice,  so  lonely,  so  wild  and  shrill, 
With  answering  voices  seemed  to  fill 

The  forest,  —  far-off,  subdued, 

In  the  heart  of  the  solitude. 

We  talked  of  the  years  to  come,  and  then 

Of  our  love  over  all,  like  the  moon  on  the  lake, 
Whose  pathway  of  light  no  storm  should  break, 

As  we  vowed  again  and  again, 

When  we  should  be  men  among  men. 

We  talked  till  our  hearts  were  filled  with  tears. 
Then  a  cloud  blew  up,  and  the  lake  grew  black  • 
And  a  peal  of  the  orchestra  brass  brought  back 

The  intervening  years, 

And  the  blaze  of  the  chandeliers : 


352  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  unclean  hand  in  the  dainty  glove, 

Hate  in  the  heart  and  a  smile  on  the  face, 
And  heat,  and  glitter,  and  glare,  in  place 
Of  the  perfect  faith  and  love, 
And  the  stars  through  the  boughs  above  ! 

Then  I  said,  "  Whatever  revenge  he  may  take, 
I  will  let  it  pass,  and  remember  still 
That  moon  and  the  voice  of  the  whippoorwill, 

And  forgive  him  all  for  the  sake 

Of  those  lonely  hours  by  the  lake." 

Resentment  is  swift,  and  pride  is  strong, 

But  the  same  old  love  lies  under  all. 

Our  leaves  are  fading,  and  soon  must  fall, 
And  I  grieve  to  think  how  long 
We  have  treasured  wrath  and  wrong. 

What,  tears  ?  you  too  !  —  I  did  not  know 

That  your  boy  was  dead  !     And  you  are  alone  ? 
Ah,  life  has  sorrows  enough  of  its  own 

Without  the  aid  of  a  foe ! 

Give  me  your  fist,  old  Joe  ! 

THE  WINNOWER 

SOMEWHERE,  nowhere, — in  some  vague  realm  or  clime, — 

I  saw  a  mighty-statured  Phantom  stand ; 
His  feet  were  on  this  threshing-floor  of  Time, 

A  fan  was  in  his  hand. 

He  smote  with  it,  and  all  things  streamed  and  whirled 

Before  the  blast  of  its  tempestuous  beat ; 
The  ancient  institutions  of  the  world 

Became  as  chaff  and  wheat. 

Fear  pierced  my  soul,  but  soon  a  thrilling  joy 

Flowered  from  that  root,  and  my  numbed  lips  grew  brave. 

O  dread  Conserver  that  must  yet  destroy ! 
Destroyer  that  will  save  ! 


THE   WINNOWER  353 


Strong  Winnower  of  the  things  of  death  and  life, 
I  know  you  now,  I  cried.     Smite  with  your  fan  ! 

Winnow  the  earth  of  enmity  and  strife ! 
Winnow  the  heart  of  man ! 

A  thousand  sophistries  perplex  the  ray 

Of  the  world's  dawning  freedom :  Seraph,  smite ! 

Winnow  the  clouds  that  dim  the  newborn  day ! 
Winnow  the  morning  light ! 

There 's  naught  so  true  in  science  and  in  creeds, 
And  naught  so  good  in  governments  and  states, 

But  something  truer  evermore  succeeds, 
And  better  still  awaits. 

With  bristling  hosts  and  battlemented  walls 

Kings  menace  kings,  and  nations  groan  therefor : 

Winnow  the  armaments  and  arsenals, 
The  iron  husks  of  war  ! 

Toil  without  end,  to  fill  a  few  white  hands 
Of  idle  lords,  gaunt  millions  still  endure : 

Winnow  the  unsunned  hoards  and  unshared  lands, 
Estranging  rich  and  poor ! 

Riches  bear  rule  till  Labor  turns  in  hate, 

And  tyrant  Wealth  confronts  the  despot,  Work : 

Winnow  the  world's  oppressors,  small  and  great ! 
Winnow  the  Tsar  and  Turk ! 

Pale  anarchists  conspire,  mad  to  possess, 

Or  to  pull  down,  what  sober  thrift  has  built : 

Winnow  alike  the  haunts  of  Lawlessness, 
The  gilded  halls  of  Guilt! 

Our  politics  are  false  and  infidel, 

Our  trusted  chiefs  bend  to  the  baser  cause : 

Smite  with  your  fan !     O  Winnower,  winnow  well 
The  makers  of  our  laws ! 


354  THE   LOST  EARL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

All  barriers  built  by  avarice,  pride,  and  wrong, 
Dividing  men,  —  unbuild  them  with  the  breath 

And  buffet  of  your  mighty  fan,  O  strong 
Angel  of  change  and  death ! 

Winnow  this  anxious  life  of  pain  and  care ! 

But  gently,  winnow  gently  !     Hear  our  cries ! 
To  love  at  least  be  merciful !     Oh,  spare 

Our  tender  human  ties  !  — 

But  cries  are  vain ;  nor  cries  nor  prayers  avail 
To  hasten  or  delay  the  Winnower's  hand ; 

Nothing  so  huge  and  firm,  so  fine  or  frail, 
But  it  at  last  is  fanned,  — 

Empires,  beliefs,  the  things  of  art  and  fame, 
The  broad-based  pyramids,  the  poet's  page ; 

To  his  eternal  patience  't  is  the  same, 
A  moment  or  an  age. 

Before  his  fan  the  mountains  form  and  flee, 

Continents  pass  ;  and  in  its  rhythmic  beat 
The  flying  stars  and  whirling  nebulae 

Are  but  as  chaff  and  wheat. 

* 
Does  naught,  of  all  that  Time  and  Nature  yield, 

Does  naught,  at  last,  but  thought  and  spirit  remain  ? 
Nature  and  Time  the  changeful  harvest  field, 

Souls  the  immortal  grain ! 


INDEX 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Titles  in  small  capitals  indicate  the  principal  divisions  of  the  work  ;  those  in  italics,  minor  divi 
sions. 


After  the  Concert,  324. 

After  the  Sale,  293. 

Ancestors,  261. 

At  Mount  Desert,  312. 

At  My  Enemy's  Gate,  120. 

At  Sea,  26. 

Aunt  Hannah,  167. 

Author's  Night,  85. 

Ballad  of  Arabella,  The,  176. 

Beauty,  22. 

Bell-Buoy  at  Mount  Desert,  The,  317. 

Birthday  Wish,  A,  347. 

Book  of  Gold,  The :  a  Christmas  Story,  133. 

BOOK  OF  GOLD,  THE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  131. 

Boy  I  Love,  The,  259. 

By  the  River,  28. 

Cabin,  The,  321. 
Captain  Seaborn,  280. 
Charcoal  Man,  The,  61. 
City  of  Good-Will,  The,  110. 
Color-Bearer,  The,  38. 
Communion,  115. 
Corn  Harvest,  57. 
Cuba,  344. 
Cup,  The,  105. 

Darius  Green  and  his  Flying-Machine,  41. 
Dorothy  in  the  Garret,  74. 

Emigrant's  Story,  The,  65. 

EMIGRANT'S  STORY,  THE,  AND  OTHBB  POEMS, 

Evening  at  Naples,  342. 

Evening  at  the  Farm,  51. 

Farmer  John,  77. 
Filling  an  Order,  232. 
Frozen  Harbor,  The,  6. 

Green  Apples,  55. 

Home  Idyl,  A,  185. 

HOME  IDYL,  A,  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  183. 
How  the  King  lost  his  Crown,  274. 
Hymn  of  the  Air,  305. 

Idyl  of  Harvest  Time,  An,  221. 
In  a  Corridor,  349. 
Indian  Camp,  The,  215. 
Isle  of  Lambs,  The,  252. 

Jaguar  Hunt,  The,  39. 
Kansas  Farmer,  The,  286. 

La  Cantatrice,  20. 
Last  Rally,  The,  36. 


Lighter  Pieces,  41. 

Little  Child,  A,  344. 

Little  Theatre,  The,  59. 

Lost  Earl,  The,  271. 

LOST  EARL,  THE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  269. 

Love,  114. 

Lyrics  of  the  War,  36. 

Menotomy  Lake,  212. 
Midsummer,  17. 
Mill-Pond,  The,  11. 
Missing  Leaf,  The,  107. 
Mother's  Tragedy,  A,  289. 
My  Career,  275. 
My  Comrade  and  I,  18. 

Name  in  the  Bark,  The,  30. 
Newly  Gathered  Leaves,  342. 

Ode,  322. 

Old  Burying-Ground,  The,  223. 

Old  Lobsterman,  The,  246. 

Old  Man  Gram,  249. 

Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  The,  233. 

Old  Robin,  205. 

Old  Simon  Dole,  79. 

One  Birthday,  98. 

One  Day  Solitary,  95. 

Our  Lady,  9. 

Out  in  the  World,  347. 

Ownership,  346. 

Pewee,  The,  14. 
Phantom  Chapel,  The,  102. 
Pleasant  Street,  208. 
Poet,  The,  309. 

Quatrains  and  Epigrams,  326. 
Abraham  Lincoln,  326. 
Temptation,  326. 
Phaeton.  326. 
Materialist,  326. 
Idealist.  326. 
Sensualist,  327. 
Years  and  Art,  327. 
How  can  I  welcome  Age  ?  327. 
An  Odious  Comparison,  327. 
Didactic  Poet,  327. 

Xayier  de  Malstre's  Epitaph  on  Himself, 
Bon  Voyage !  328. 

Rachel  at  the  Well,  122. 

Real  Estate,  27. 

Recollections  of  "Lalla  Rookh,"  228. 

Restored  Picture,  The,  12. 

Seeking,  The,  303. 
Service,  24. 


358 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Sheriff  Thome,  118. 
Song  of  the  Flail,  128. 
Sonnets,  240. 

Nativity,  240. 

Circumstance.  241. 

Providence,  241. 

Story  of  the  Barefoot  Boy,  A,  226. 
Streamlet,  The,  100. 
Sword  of  Bolivar,  The,  32. 

Three  Worlds,  298. 
Tom  's  come  Home,  171. 
Tragedy  Queen,  The,  242. 


Trouting,  127. 
Twoscore  and  Ten,  264. 

Under  Moon  and  Stars,  236. 

Vagabonds,  The,  3. 

VAGABONDS,  THE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  1. 

Watching  the  Crows,  49. 

Widow  Brown's  Christmas,  328. 

Wild  Goose,  The,  53. 

Winnower,  The,  352. 

Wreck  of  the  Fishing-Boat,  The,  152. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Above  the  roofs  of  the  lowly  let  Poesy  hover  and 

glance,  184. 

Across  the  sleepy,  sun-barred  atmosphere,  264. 
All  round  the  lake  the  wet  woods  shake,  233. 
Along  the  endlessly  blockaded  street,  346. 
Around  this  lovely  valley  rise,  17. 
As  I  passed  my  enemy's  gate,  120. 
As  through  the  wood  I 


110. 


went,  by  rock  and  spring, 


At  the  gateway  of  the  bay,  317. 
A  youth  there  was  and  his  dwelling  amid  great 
wonders  stood,  309. 

"  Brilliant  success  !  "  the  play-bills  said,  85. 

By  an  elm-tree  half  decayed,  122. 

By  chance,  and  the  dusty  old  library  foraging, 

107. 

By  day,  at  a  high  oak  desk  I  stand,  20. 
By  ways  of  dreaming  and  doing,  303. 

Cape  Porpoise  is  a  little  fishing  town,  152. 

"  Caw,    caw  !  "     You  don't  say  so  !  —  "  Caw, 

caw  !  "   What,  once  more  ?  49. 
Companion*  of  my  charmed  nights  and  days, 

132. 

Fond  lover  of  the  Ideal  Fair,  22. 

Friend,  have  a  pipe,  and  a  seat  on  the  log  here 

under  the  pine-tree,  65. 
From  the  house  of  desolation,  236. 
Fused  in  the  fires  of  passion,  hi  the  fervor  of 

fancy  wrought,  327. 

Genius,  't  is  said,  knows  not  itself,  321. 

He  fell  in  a  wayside  brawl,  not  far  from  his  mo 

ther's  door,  289. 

He  took  a  tawny  handful  from  the  strand,  326. 
Her  triumphs  are  over,  the  crown,  242. 
Here  lies,  beneath  this  cold  gray  stone,  328. 
Heroic  soul,  in  homely  garb  half  hid,  326. 
His  window  is  over  the  factory  flume,  328. 
Home  from  his  journey,  Farmer  John,  77. 
Hot  youth,  in  haste  your  high  career  to  run, 

326. 
How  can  I  welcome  age,  or  behold  without  dis 

may,  327. 
How  sweet,  till  past,  then  hideous  evermore, 


I  am  all  right !  good-by,  old  chap  !  95. 

/  ask  my  soul  why,  day  and  night,  270. 

I  know  a  little  theatre,  59. 

If  ever  there  lived  a  Yankee  lad,  41. 

In  later  years,  veiling  its  unblest  face,  12. 

In  little  Gram  Court  lives  old  man  Gram,  249. 

In  sad  foreknowledge  of  man's  state,  that  he, 

114. 

In  sunlight  slept  the  gilded  cliff,  252. 
In  the  Autumn  when  the  hollows,  128. 
In  the  beautiful  greenwood's  charmed  light,  28. 


In  the  low-raftered  garret,  stooping,  74. 
In  youth  the  world,  a  newly  blown,  298. 
It  is  only  the  tiniest  stream,  100. 

Just  back  from  a  beach  of  sand  and  sheila,  246. 

Like  Peace  itself,  as  calm  and  fair,  322. 
"  Live  while  we  live  !  "  he  cried ;  but  did  not 
guess,  327. 

My  boy,  do  you  know  the  boy  I  love  ?  259. 

My  mother,  they  said,  was  a  soldier's  child,  275. 

Nourisher  and  encloser  of  all  life,  305. 

On  HaverhilPs  pleasant  hills  there  played,  226. 
One  snowy  Christmas  eve  it  came  to  pass,  133. 
Open  lies  the  book  before  me :  in  a  realm  obscure 

as  dreams,  261. 

Our  lady  lives  on  the  hillside  here,  9. 
Our  ship  went  down,  and  not  a  boat,  280. 
Out  from  the  Northern  forest,  dim  and  vast, 

215. 

Over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes,  51. 
Over  the  valley  the  storm-clouds  blow,  185. 

Panoplied  with  crags  and  trees,  312. 

Plumed  ranks  of  tall  wild-cherry,  223. 

Poet !  you  do  your  genius  wrong,  327. 

Pull  down  the  bough,  Bob !    Is  n't  this  fun  ?  55. 

Rally  !  rally !  rally  !  36. 

Seize  traits  of  the  living  and  human,  —  no  copy  of 

copy  and  cast,  2. 
Sell  old  Robin,  do  you  say  ?   Well,  I  reckon  not 

to-day !  205. 
She  is  known  of  all  the  town,  in  her  quaintly 

fashioned  gown,  167. 

So,  Mirny,  it 's  me  an'  you  agin,  is  it  ?  79. 
Somewhere, —nowhere,  — in  some  vague  realm 

or  clime,  352. 

Stalking  before  the  lords  of  life,  one  came,  241. 
Swift  cloud,  swift  light,  now  dark,  now  bright, 

across  the  landscape  played,  221. 

That  I  should  be  sheriff  and  keep  the  jail,  118. 

The  cup  I  sing  is  a  cup  of  gold,  105. 

The  dark  jaguar  was  abroad  in  the  land,  39. 

The  day  went  down,  beneath  an  amber  sky,  342. 

The  fields  are  filled  with  a  smoky  haze,  57. 

The  inevitable  day,  347. 

The  king's  men,  when  they  had  slam  the  boar, 

274. 

The  listening  Dryads  hushed  the  woods,  14. 
The  night-breeze  puffed  our  sail,  as  though,  102. 
The  night  is  made  for  cooling  shade,  26. 
The  pleasant   grounds   are   greenly  turfed  and 

graded,  27. 

The  self  of  so  long  ago,  30. 
The  tempest  of  applause  he  met,  324. 


360 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


The  wagon,  with  high  fantastic  load,  293. 

The  world  is  but  a  frozen  kind  of  gas,  326. 

There  is  peace  on  the  mountains,  115. 

There  's  nothing  so  sweet  as  a  morning  in  May, 
212. 

Thistle  and  serpent  we  exterminate,  240. 

Though  rudely  blows  the  wintry  blast,  61. 

'T  is  pleasant,  indeed,  208. 

'T  is  the  island  of  the  orange,  of  the  yucca,  and 
the  palm,  344. 

To  Nature,  in  her  shop  one  day,  at  work  com 
pounding  simples,  232. 

'T  was  a  fortress  to  be  stormed,  38. 

'T  was  the  good  fast  yacht,  The  Mermaid,  that 
went  sailing  down  the  bay,  176. 

Unconscious  childhood's  tiny  grasp,  344. 
Under  the  wintry  skies,  64. 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I,  3. 

We  talked  or  read,  or  idly  sat  beholding,  286. 


We  two  alone  in  the  corridor,  349. 

We  two  have  grown  up  so  divinely  together,  18. 

Weary  with  pondering  many  a  weighty  theme, 

When  gruff   winter  goes,  and  from  under  his 

snows,  53. 

When  I  beheld  a  lover  woo,  24. 
When  to  my  haughty  spirit  I  rehearse,  327. 
When  to  the  land  of  Scott  and  Burns,  328. 
When  we  were  farm-boys,  years  ago,  228. 
When  winter  encamps  on  our  borders,  6. 
When  you  take  up  your  violin,  how  soon,  347. 
Where  the  willows  that  overhang  the  lane,  98. 
With  his  lariat  coiled  on  the  horn  of  his  saddle, 

271. 

With  its  heavily  rocking  and  swinging  load,  171. 
With  slender  rod,  and  line,  and  reel,  127. 
With  the  steadfast  stars  above  us,  32. 

Youth  strikes  a  skill-less  blow,  but  the  metal  is 
all  aglow,  327. 


Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  <&*  C0. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


AUG  2  9  1967  2  6 

SEP    7  '67  -3PM 

,_OAN  DEPT. 

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LD21A-60/, 
(H241slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


